Letters
by Slinky-and-the-BloodyWands
Summary: Dr. Reid writes his mother on a daily basis, telling her of his "adventures," but, after a chance encounter, Buffy Summers accidentally receives one of his letters. Eventual Buffy/Spencer.
1. Prologue: Crossed Paths

**Disclaimer: I do not own **_**Buffy the Vampire Slayer **_**or **_**Criminal Minds**_**. I make no money from this work. **

**A/N 1: No, this story does not consist entirely of letters. That's just the plotline. **

**A/N 2: So I created some fanart for a challenge at the Deviant Art group called Sunnydale Crossing, and, in turn, came up with the plotline for **_**Letters**_**. I won the challenge and the group leader, Nurseygirl, wrote me a prize one-shot based on my idea. I talked it over with her and decided to write it into a chapter story to develop it further. If you'd like the link to Nurseygirl's one-shot, send me a PM or mention it in a review. **

**Prologue: Crossed Paths**

"_Men heap together the mistakes of their lives, and create a monster they call destiny." -John Hobbes_

"She _lives_ for your visits," the nurse said.

Spencer opened his mouth, prepared to reply with an excuse. Because he always had a dozen ready when he walked through the doors of the Bennington Sanitarium. Work. Distance. Injury. Those were the best. His worst was cowardice. It was further down the list, and he didn't need to say the word aloud.

He licked his lip, caught her with the corner of his eye, and realized that she was no longer speaking to him. Brow furrowed, he cocked his head, staring past a bun of gray hair at the other visitor.

A somber, green gaze caught him staring, and he quickly turned away. The blond looked about his age, which probably meant she was a few years his junior. But something in her eyes remained with him, even though he was now studying the small stack in his arms: a poorly wrapped book, one he was certain his mother hadn't yet read, a fresh notebook, and two letters he'd decided to hand deliver.

Rita, a nurse with a daunting retirement upcoming, leaned towards the young woman with a conspiratorial lowness to her voice. Spencer wasn't sure when Rita had forgotten his presence, and he wasn't sure if he should go on without her. He almost always took an escort to the activity room.

"I probably shouldn't say this…"

"Well, now you have to tell me," the young woman insisted. She winked in Spencer's direction, obviously enjoying the nurse's gossipy nature.

Caught eavesdropping, Spencer felt his ears redden. He hid his own grin.

"I'll tell you, I heard Dr. Keller speaking to one of his colleagues when Dana first came to live here-he was certain she'd never improve, not after her history. Don't tell anyone, but he wanted to send her to another facility, despite your group's considerable contribution," Rita said, her brow high. "But, she's surprised us all over the past couple years. And Dana always brightens so much when you or one of her other friends stop in. But especially when you visit, Buffy. What _do_ you two talk about in there?"

_Buffy_. Spencer bit his lip, knowing he wouldn't forget the name anytime soon.

"Destiny," was the quirky reply. "Destiny and shoes."

Spencer felt his phone vibrate against his pocket, and he quickly plucked it, the humor dropping from his face.

"Reid," was his only hello. Hotch's stern voice greeted him. Just beyond, he could hear the nurse still beside him.

Rita chuckled. "Fine, fine. Secrets are secrets. Just keep doing whatever you're doing. Dana's out in the garden at the moment. Do you want me to walk you there?"

Spencer covered his free ear, taking in every word out of Hotch's mouth. A case. Young mothers. Nevada. "It's only an hour and forty minutes away," he contributed-a walking GPS.

His supervisor continued. Still, he could feel them, eyes on his side, observing him. Buffy watched on with interest. Her stance was rigid but in control, her face, naturally soft and childlike in its heart-shape, was frozen in a frown. _Sexual sadist _left Hotch's mouth, and she took an instinctive step towards Reid. But surely she couldn't hear what Hotch was saying, not from the distance.

Green eyes told him she could. A shiver ran down Spencer's spine. _Not possible_, he thought.

"I'll get started on the geographical profile," he repeated, causing Hotch to pause.

A silence passed. A knowing between friends.

"Reid." Spencer remained quiet. "I'm sorry to interrupt your visit," Aaron finished. His words were filled with regret, but also with confidence in his youngest agent. Reid would do the job, no matter his personal loss.

Spencer ended the call. Buffy. Buffy with the pale green eyes was gone, and Rita, now facing him as if she'd been just as eager to assist moments ago, was the only person remaining in the foyer.

He frowned, holding the package out to her awaiting hands. How many times would this happen, how many times could he put off the next meeting? The next reminder of what his future might hold. "Could you deliver these to my mother, Diana Reid?" he asked.

Rita took them, chiding him for the quick departure.

But Diana Reid was already at the back of his mind, and he buried his guilt with her and with the memory of the green-eyed visitor. The new case was priority, not the strange behavior of a pretty blonde. Nevada had a serial killer.

**End Notes: Ok, so the letters portion begins in the first chapter. I've never actually written for _Criminal Minds_ before, so I hope this turned out ok. Tell me what you think. **


	2. Chapter 1: The Letter

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**Buffy the Vampire Slayer **_**or **_**Criminal Minds**_**. **

**A/N: Wow, thanks for all the feedback and alerts! I hope this first chapter keeps your interest. **

**Chapter 1: The Letter**

_"If we knew each other's secrets, what comforts we should find." _

_-John Churton Collins_

"Went to Vegas and all I got was this lousy t-shirt," Buffy muttered, rubbing a purple knot on her right shoulder.

The empty bedroom didn't reply. Nevertheless, Buffy raised a confrontational brow, already disagreeing with herself. Nope, not just a t-shirt, but also a fine assortment of scrapes and bruises: whoever had said that Las Vegas was low on the demon scale obviously wasn't counting the family of Serparvo demons living in the abandoned hospital.

That little clean-up had take a full night out of her "vacation." Then there had been the unfortunate accident involving a complementary chocolate fondue and her open luggage. But in the end, she'd pulled off the most important part of her trip without a snag. Dana had been more than happy to see her.

Dana. Sore subject.

Buffy winced, dropped her purse onto the bed, and collapsed without remorse onto her stack of pillows. She could hear the door open downstairs, two of her girls arguing over what sort of pizza to have for supper. They were permanents on the Cleveland hellmouth, had moved here, made it home. Buffy was the guest in this household, though she had her own room-the best room-and she'd been living here off and on for years. It wasn't home.

Dawn wasn't here but in California again, Stanford, at least for a semester, as she tried to worm a very useful occult book from one of her language professors. Xander had decided on Cleveland as a permanent home, though, "Just can't get enough of Hellmouths," he'd explained. Somehow his goofy grin stayed with him. A good number of the slayers were in Scotland, rebuilding, Giles at the helm for the moment.

Thinking of Scotland made her remember the last big bad. The destruction of the castle the New Council had renovated. The kids she'd lost along the way.

Buffy knew that's where she belonged, with Giles, making decisions, but this "vacation" was well deserved, if not exactly relaxing. Too many demons, too little time. Still it was hers, and she didn't have to play general, at least not full time.

Another month, and then she'd get back too it. Yeah.

Buffy groaned into the pillow. Sure. A month. "Give or take a decade." Another breath into the feather down, and she pushed herself up onto her elbows. "Leading sucks."

A smirk; sad one.

She knew why. Why she found herself drained. Sad. Dana. Dana was one big reminder with way too many post-its attached to her forehead. Just thinking of her unstable sister-slayer brought Angel to the front of her mind. But that wasn't the only reason Dana tugged on her heartstrings.

Slayers had dreams. Of the past. Of death. Destruction. Blood spilling, bones breaking. Sometimes invigorating in their power, usually terrifying in their grand reveals: slayer dreams weren't fun.

Most slayers had one every once in a while. Usually in the form of a warning. On rare occasion, just a cryptic "hello, how's the killin'?" from the first of their kind, the tribal daughter of Sineya. But some slayers had dreams, visions, often, way more often than Buffy could remember having them. Dana had them almost every night. And sometimes she had them when she was awake.

Kill, be killed. Watch the world burn. All while she was playing Go Fish in the sanatorium's activity room.

Didn't seem fair, in Buffy's opinion. All that horror in Dana's past had unleashed a part of her mind that let the slayer spirit out in full force. It had taken them half a year to get Dana to a stable place, to a state of mind that was safe for those around her.

Buffy wasn't really sure who had chosen to put Dana in Nevada, but she remembered Willow talking about its mysteriously lax demon activity over the past few years, about the doctors that were available, about how much Dana liked the weather. So Vegas it had been. A little out of the way for Dana's favorite visitors, but that didn't stop Buffy from showing up from time to time.

A small buzz announced that Buffy had done way too much reflecting for one relaxation period. Then Buffy realized there wasn't actually a timer for that; her phone was vibrating. Again. Buffy reached for her purse, pulled free the device and quickly opened and closed it. How many times did she have to tell Andrew that she didn't care that the new _Dr. Who _premiere was in an hour?

She'd mentioned the actor was cute once. One little time. And Andrew had dug his geek claws into her back and pulled her into the fandom.

_Ugg _somehow didn't cover Buffy's current state of _not caring_.

Buffy blinked at her purse and raised a brow at the make-up bag her little phone tirade had dislodged. Sure, her it was a little on the full side, but from this angle, it looked downright bulging, and only half-way zipped. A piece of paper was sticking out of one side. She hadn't noticed it earlier. Granted, she hadn't exactly decided to put on make-up when preparing for her plane ride home. (Something about her oversized Blue Men tourist tee didn't inspire the fashionista in her.)

The zipper was hung on the paper, but Buffy managed to loosen it with minimal damage. Two folded envelopes sprang out, unfolding in their release. They had been crammed into the tight space, but they were full sized, somewhat heavy, as if they held more than one sheet.

Buffy flipped them over. Open. Both of them. And the front announced that they were from Spencer Reid of D.C. and to Diana Reid of Las Vegas. Specifically of Bennington Sanitarium. Buffy arched a brow. There was no way that was a coincidence.

The explanation was simple: Dana or one of the other patients who'd gotten close to Buffy had shoved the envelopes inside. But the why wasn't so clear.

"Probably has something to do with the not-so-stable mental state," Buffy concluded.

Buffy told herself that she'd pack the envelopes away, send them back to Bennington in the morning with an explanation, and do the right thing. Her fingers had another plan, however. Tired, exhausted from the time she'd spent sitting coach behind a very rude eight-year-old, and in need of a shower, Buffy decided to forgo rationality. She removed the first letter, then the second, lining them up together, and began to read.

_Mom. _

That's who he was addressing. The patient at Bennington was his mother. Buffy frowned, embarrassed. This was wrong, totally wrong. What kind of jerk would read some guy's intimate letters to his mom?

"A Buffy-shaped jerk," she supplied, and continued, unable to control her curiosity.

She was almost two paragraphs in when she suddenly remembered bright brown eyes, brighter still in the tired, purple shadows beneath their long lashes. The image was so vivid, so sudden, that it shocked her. Buffy wasn't sure where it came from until she recalled the man who she'd played eye-tag with in the foyer at Bennington. He'd been carrying a stack. There'd been envelopes there, she was certain.

Buffy didn't have the best memory. Just ask her high school history teachers. But he'd stood out, not because he was sort of adorable in his nerdy sweater vest and red blush, but because of the phone conversation he'd had. So official, so serious. About a serial killer in Nevada.

Buffy had walked away from the information, knowing that human crimes were for human cops, but it had bothered her. Tugged at something deep inside.

So the man had probably been involved in the investigation, judging from the conversation. And Buffy just happened to be holding a letter from a man discussing his work at Quantico. As an FBI agent.

Coincidence? Buffy didn't believe in such a thing, not anymore. But the letters didn't exactly spell out P.T.B. or Big Bad Plot. So, she read on, enraptured by the voice in the words.

* * *

Some days, Dr. Spencer Reid felt as if he didn't require an actual home. People kept memories in a home. Spencer kept his in his head. People felt safe, content, relaxed in a home. Spencer felt that way at the office, amongst his co-workers. In truth, putting his wardrobe in a suitcase and changing hotels every time he returned from a case would have been more entertaining than returning to his lonely apartment, though his nature would not allow for such change.

He sighed, frustrated. A solid habitat, with somewhat pricey rent, was yet another illogical social requirement that he was forced to meet. Spencer knew that exhaustion was the reason for his silent aggression towards the world in general.

He knew his concentration, his lack of faith in his home life for what they were: simply the mental ramblings of the fabled golden hour between midnight and dawn, when men spewed philosophy and decided to join circuses. Spencer rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, still able to taste the last four cups of coffee in his mouth. He had a degree in philosophy, so the golden hour didn't not effect him in that way. No, he opted to think on life as a criminal catching nomad dressed as a lion tamer.

Spencer chuckled. Perhaps he shouldn't have had that last drink with Morgan.

He had convinced himself that he was sleeping in his sweater vest when he actually remembered the mail in his hands. Bill. Coupon for new flooring. A thick letter-this made him pause. He scanned the sender's address. Cleveland, Ohio. Not significant. The name, though, was one he remembered, ever so faintly.

About a month ago, he'd been on personal time in Las Vegas, visiting his mother. Buffy had been the girl he'd seen but never really met. The one with green eyes. Most would have forgotten the encounter. Even with his spectacular memory, Spencer didn't recall every verbal introduction he'd ever made. But, Buffy was a unique name. And she'd made an impression.

The slight buzz he felt (_thank you, Morgan_) didn't allow for normal caution. He opened the envelope without hesitation and let the thick fold of paper fall forward. The paper he recognized as his own ledger, aged and crisp. The scent of a library in its folds-his mother insisted he use this brand for that sensation alone. However, above this familiar stationary was a thin purple paper, lined, a girl's curved and wide handwriting across it.

Spencer wiped the sleep from his eyes, taking a seat. Curiosity would allow no further delay. He read on, in his quick, robotic fashion:

_Dear Spencer Reid, _

_I hope these letters reached you well. I realize that you're probably confused, especially since we've never met before. That's to say, we've never been formally introduced. I'm pretty sure, like 90% sure, that we've seen one another. That's not really important, though. . .I've probably confused you even more, haven't I? _

Spencer smirked at the hesitation in the bleeding line marks. She'd obviously not known how to begin. At some point, the smirk turned into a full-out laugh. He wasn't quite sure why this tickled his funny bone.

Oh, yes he did: Morgan and liquor. That was why. Of course, he couldn't fully blame Derek for their little visit to the bar after they'd wrapped up the paperwork from their latest case. The team, the unmarried and under forty portion of it, needed the time to unwind. However, most of them had not consumed a pot of coffee beforehand, so they were more aware of when to stop drinking.

Spencer on the other hand. . .

"Studies show that bar patrons who mix alcohol with caffeine are four times more likely to attempt to drive home drunk and exhibit irrational behavior. In fact, these individuals usually leave the bar drunker than other patrons because the caffeine makes them feel more awake, tricking their bodies into believing that they are, in turn, less intoxicated," he rambled. And came to a dead stop, looking up at the empty room. Nope, no team stood listening.

Spencer pursed his lips, only slightly embarrassed by the spew. He quickly muttered something about not driving drunk. Because he hadn't (_thank you , Morgan). _Clearing his throat, Spencer turned his attention back to the letter, quickly deciding to hold off handwriting analysis for later in the morning, after a few hours of sleep.

_My point is, I found these letters in my purse after visiting Bennington Sanitarium. I'm not sure how they got there. I was already back in Cleveland when I noticed them or I would have returned them at once. Life sort of got in the way, though, and I forgot about them until a few days ago. _

Apologetic, but with defensive undertones, Spencer noticed, unable to help himself. He raised a brow.

_I kind of, sort of, read them. I'm so sorry, but they were already open, and I was really exhausted at the time. You should never make decisions when you're tired. I've learned my lesson, promise. I know there's privacy issues and that you work with the FBI, but I really hope you aren't too angry with me. _

Though Spencer had only glimpsed the smallest of grins on the woman's face upon their meeting, he could see it in his mind. Apologetic, innocent. Perhaps falsely so. But the image alone forced a similar smile to curve his lips.

He should be angry. These were letters to his mother. Private letters. About work, his life. But either the thought of Buffy's green eyes or the liquor was keeping him strangely nonchalant. Without a doubt, if Morgan or Hotch had received a similar note, they would have jumped to suspicion, but Spencer couldn't help but hear the nervous voice in the words.

_Anyhow, I hope your mom wasn't too disappointed about not receiving these. It sounds like you really care about what she thinks, and, if she's anything like my mom was, I'm sure she cherishes every chance to hear about your life. I wish I had been as honest as you are with my own mother. It would have saved, well, it would have changed things. _

_So, sorry about the mix-up. Keep catching bad guys and being a good son. Oh, and please don't sue me for reading your letters. Pretty please. _

_Yours, _

_Buffy_

Spencer blinked, confused by the change of tone throughout the letter. There was something there, something between the lines that it didn't take an analyst to see.

It was foolish, he knew, to reply. The letters had been returned. There was really no need to assure her that she's done the right thing. After all, she really hadn't. Still, Spencer couldn't help himself. He picked up a pen.


	3. Chapter 2: Gotta Secret

**Disclaimer: I do not own **_**Criminal Minds **_**or **_**Buffy the Vampire Slayer. **_

**A/N: The internet. Is not the FBI's best friend. Also, can you spot the not-so-hidden _Supernatural_ reference? Hee. **

**Chapter 2: Got a Secret, Gonna Keep It**

_"There are no secrets better kept than the secrets that everybody guesses."_

_-George Bernard Shaw_

The slam of the door threw Mr. Gordo the Third (the second replacement since the Fall of Sunnydale) from the set of drawers to the carpet.

"Congratulations, Judy. You're officially on my list," Buffy muttered, glaring daggers at the door. Daring the slayer outside to ask the question again. After a moment, Buffy could hear retreating footsteps and the soft murmur of whispers as Judy and Lily, the house's two permanent residents continued their gossip.

It wasn't that she was hiding the letter. Well. Maybe. But that wasn't the point. The point was that Jr. Slayers had no business digging through "T"he Slayer's mail. Period.

_Because I never dig through other people's mail. _Buffy scoffed. She had the good sense to feel ashamed at her little outburst. _On the menu tonight, hypocrisy with a side of condescending heroine. _

The thought made her think of Xander, and for a split second, Buffy wanted to call him on his work cell and rant. But she'd made a little promise to him: no calls to the construction site involving shopping or cute guys.

And Spencer qualified as "cute guy" talk, right? He definitely wasn't the demons and fresh wounds that Xander would expect from a mid-day emergency phone call. So no ranting. Not yet. She could save that for the dinner table.

The envelope snugly slipped into her day planner was open. The letter had been delivered a day earlier, and Buffy had read it since. Once. Then again with a raised brow. This was the second letter that Spencer Reid had sent her way. The first had been . . . Well, Buffy was pretty sure the guy had been in full ramble mode, if not a little intoxicated. In fact, he'd acknowledged the number of drinks he'd consumed between the paragraph giving her statistics on mail fraud and the paragraph explaining the threat of anthrax to the US postal system. Somewhere in the mist of the crazy, Buffy had started laughing. And she hadn't stopped.

So, when she'd reached the end of the letter and found him slightly inquisitive, she'd not given it a second thought. She'd written back.

But this second letter. . .

Buffy chewed her lip, unfolding it again. Thankfully, she'd caught Judy just before the teenage girl had pulled the note free. In fact, Buffy was fairly certain the other slayers hadn't even realized that it was a private letter. Usually Buffy shoved the bills in her planner, where they were forgotten until the dun arrived, and it was up to Xander to fish them out of their calendar-lined grave. But Buffy had put Spencer's letter there for a reason: to forget about it.

Because, heaven forbid she actually answer.

Buffy slid down onto her bed, resting her head against the pillows and raising the letter above her. Light haloed the tight fibers of the yellow paper, causing the black ink to look more intense. At the top, her name stood out like a beacon.

Her lips curved upward. She couldn't help it. Something about his words reminded her of her friends. Goofy Xander, rambling Willow, and somewhere between the lines, there was a man hesitating to say what was really on his mind. That reminded Buffy of someone too, and she quickly shook the thought off. Spencer's words were nervous, intelligent, and plentiful. Definitely the work of someone who'd written letters before.

_Dear Buffy, _

_I was surprised to hear back from you so quickly. There's no need to continue apologizing, I assure you. I think we're past that now. And, no, your letters aren't interrupting my work. Though, if I disappear for a few days, it's likely job related, and you should take no offense. _

_Yes, my mother is doing well. Thank you for asking. _

Buffy quit rereading, wincing. She'd definitely brought this upon herself.

Buffy hadn't really been into the pen-pal scene as a kid. Way too interested in cheerleading to take the time to buy stamps. And the internet age's chatrooms and message boards hadn't called to her, especially after Willow's fiasco with the creeptastic "Malcolm" (aka Moloch the Ultimate Computer Virus). Still, there was something really nice about talking to a stranger.

Of course, as is the Summers' way, all good things must come to a brutal and untimely end.

She'd known Spencer would ask eventually. They could only go on with the apology game for so long. And she'd really left it up to him to bring it up. Why? Why had she talked about his job at the FBI? Would it have been too hard for her just to comment on the weather Ohio was having? But, nope, she had to mention his job. And so, the inevitable, dreaded question had arrived:

_What do you do for a living, Buffy? _

Damn. Buffy moaned. Why'd he have to ask? And if that hadn't been bad enough, he'd ended the letter with another blow:

_If you don't mind me asking, was that your sister you were visiting in Bennington? _

"Own. Damn. Fault." Buffy groaned, letting the paper fall onto her face and shade the light. The letter smelled very Giles-like, which, in turn, meant it reminded her of a well-aged library.

She could lie about the job. Find a way to explain away Dana. But a little voice inside her was shouting out a warning. Lying to a federal agent? So not smart.

And what did she really know about Spencer Reid?

Buffy sat up, something akin to fear on her face. What _did_ she know? _Nothing, _that's what. Here she was, getting chatty with a guy she saw once, when he could very well be in league with the next Big Bad. She'd definitely receive disappointment-face if she mentioned him to her friends.

Which she hadn't. Mentioned him. Buffy wasn't quite sure why she was keeping his letters secret. Oh yeah, disappointment-face.

The answer was clear to Buffy. There was only one way she could continue speaking to Spencer, and that was if she had him checked out. There was a very clear problem here, though. Willow, her go-to girl, was busy on a spiritual quest to tame her inner goddess (again), Xander was only talented with computers when it came to ordering pizza and looking up. . . Well, Buffy was going to pretend she hadn't stumbled in on him that one night. And Andrew, king of gossip, would turn Spencer into the talk of Slayer Central.

Buffy stared at her laptop. It was sitting on her desk, currently covered with a pile of clean t-shirts. No Will or Andy, that left Mr. Google. Buffy cracked her knuckled and slid off the bed.

"Ok, Spencer Reid, let's see what the public knows about you."

* * *

Dr. Spencer Reid wouldn't say that his eidetic memory was his calling card, but it definitely helped him do his job. The ability to see an image, or, in most cases, words, and recollect it almost instantly was one that most professionals would pay millions to obtain. However, he was a rarity, and his ability could not be traded for, given away, or passed on.

It was for this reason that the team took notice of the folded slip of purple stationary sticking out of Reid's notebook. Because Reid had slipped the paper out four times since he'd arrived to work that morning, glancing over it, as if re-reading the handwritten message. And every person in the room knew for a fact that the young doctor hadn't forgotten whatever was scribbled on the purple page.

"Okay, I give," Morgan announced, sitting on the edge of Reid's desk, "what is it?"

Spencer jumped slightly at the interruption before blinking furiously up at the other man. He coughed, hiding the paper before Morgan's outstretched hand could pull it away.

"Excuse me?" Spencer didn't fake confusion well. He tried to cover his attempt. "Is there a reason why you've decided to sit on my desk? Again?"

Morgan huffed, hiding his bright grin with a cool swipe of his fingers. He shook his head. "Come on, man, you're distracted. And it has something to do with that purple piece of paper."

Until the words left Morgan's mouth, Spencer hadn't fully realized how obvious his little "peeks" at Buffy's letter had been. Awkwardly folding and unfolding his limbs, he managed to slip his notebook into his top drawer.

He took an anxious breath. How best to deal with this. . . Well, there was always the truth. Reid's brow wrinkled when he realized what that truth would be. Morgan was his friend, quite possibly his best friend, but Reid knew him just as well as the rest of his BAU family. When it came to strangers entering their lives through suspicious circumstances, other agents could get a tad bit paranoid. And justifiably so.

Spencer could admit that writing letters to a strange woman was a bit of an odd hobby, somewhat of a dangerous one, some would say. And yet there was a such a draw in the risk alone. Sure, on occasion, Spencer would meet someone in a restaurant or at a workshop that would strike up a conversation, but there was something decidedly more intimate in letter writing. He quickly shook his head, deciding at once neither to dwell on the subtle allure of Buffy's letters nor to tell Morgan anything close to the truth.

A plan of action formulated on its own.

"Perhaps I have a friend," Reid said, smiling slightly. Not a complete lie.

Morgan's gaze narrowed, partly in suspicion, partly in amusement. "A friend. Huh. And this friend doesn't use a telephone?"

Spencer raised a brow. "Some things are easier said in writing," he answered. "And text messages are simply insufficient."

Derek leaned back, a silent laugh rocking his chest. "Oh, Reid, you're killin' me." With one last snort, he rolled his eyes, realization hitting him. Morgan lowered his voice, "It's from your mom, isn't it? Jeeze, kid, you had me thinking there was a secret admirer who'd gotten our addresses mixed-up."

Reid scratched his brow to hide a blush, smiled, and stood. "More coffee," he excused, and walked past the other agent.

"You mean more sugar?"

Spencer pretended not to hear him, but before leaving the room entirely, he paused, looking back over his shoulder. Morgan hadn't bought the act, not entirely. Reid frowned when he saw the other man gently ease open the top drawer to sneak a peek at the notebook's binding. Finding no purple corner of a letter, and not willing to invade his friend's privacy to a greater extent, Morgan hopped off the desk, unsatisfied.

Reid patted his sweater, where the letter sat flat against his stomach, planted there with one slip of his wrist. "Never play a magician, Derek," he muttered.

And went in search of coffee. With extra sugar.

* * *

Buffy's hand hovered over the touchpad, her brow wrinkled in a dramatic display of horror. She pushed the phone closer to her ear, eyes glued on the screen in front of her.

"And I just move it to the vault?"

The tinny voice sounding out of the cell phone was low in true bored-Dawn fashion. "Yes, Buffy. Just move click the button that says 'move.'"

Buffy hesitated. "But what if comes back?"

A groan was her first reply. "It won't Buffy, not with Willow's system of magically infused virus and malware protection. You're covered, trust me."

Buffy moved the cell phone, giving it a hard stare before resting it against her head again. "Thanks, Dawnie."

_Finally. _Buffy had spent twenty minutes trying to figure out a game plan when the Willow-alert flashed over her screen, throwing her for a loop. But the information she'd found before the alert. . . There was very little one could guess about a person's life by reading their letters alone, but the internet had given Buffy a new view of _Dr. _Spencer Reid. Articles, essays, workshop guest lists: when the FBI had started plastering their agents all over the news, Buffy wasn't sure, but she was pleased to find his face staring back at her from a scanned article clipping.

Buffy was left with a strange, hollow feeling in her stomach. Nothing she'd read suggested he might be part of some evil plan to take her down, but, still, she didn't think that information would be spilled out for all the world wide web to see. From what she'd managed to find, she was left, well, _impressed_. If not a tad bit intimidated. Dr. Spencer Reid was practically a _genius_.

What on earth would make him want to write her back?

"Well, it's supposed to be idiot proof. Go figure."

"Yeah, funny." Buffy smiled nevertheless. The expression wavered slightly when she thought of Spencer's reported IQ. Surely geniuses still had computer issues. "How's the search for Dr. Malestrom's book going?"

The sound of rap playing in the dormitory nearly drowned out Dawn's voice for a moment. She shouted something away from the phone before coming back to her sister's question.

"He's finally admitted that he has it, but he's hesitant to hand it over. Apparently the New Council sounds a tad scary, a bit too Illuminati for his liking. Oh, and apparently I'm not the first student who's ever asked about it."

Buffy raised a brow. "That's weird."

"Yeah, apparently a couple years ago some, and I quote the good doctor, 'giant, puppy-dog-eyed pre-law student' saw it during a meeting in his office and asked to see it. Dr. Malestrom said he was going to loan it out but the student dropped out of school soon after. I'm guessing the gentle-giant was just an amateur warlock who recognized the symbols on the front," Dawn paused to take a breath. "Oh, and I realize what you're doing here."

"What? I'm doing something?" Buffy faked stupid. Expertly. Unfortunately, her sister could see through the act. "Is it a crime to ask how your baby sister is doing?"

"Buffy," Dawn deadpanned, "how'd you run into malware? You never use your computer. Oh, lord, you weren't looking up something 'ugg' were you?"

Buffy rolled her eyes, remembered Xander, and then frowned. "No!" she snapped. "I was doing research."

A heavy silence filled the line.

"Dawn, you still there?"

Dawn's laughter sounded over the line. "You? You're doing research on the internet? And the laptop is still in one piece?" The younger woman pushed down another fit of giggles, regaining her composure. "Are you sure you didn't simply discover the wonders of online shopping?"

_Damn. _Buffy frowned. That would have been such a great excuse. So why hadn't she used it? It occurred to Buffy that there were some things a girl really could talk to her sister about.

"Spill."

The one-word command was simple. It was also given in a tone that most the Jr. Slayers had come to refer to as "Scary-Dawn Voice."

"Alright, Dawn." Buffy sighed, leaning onto her elbow. "When I was visiting Dana, I sort of spotted this guy."

"Wait," Dawn interrupted, "Buffy, please tell me it wasn't a patient. Because, considering your dating history, there are only so many ways you could impress me."

Buffy was surprised that her cheeks were blushed. "Not a patient, and who said anything about dating?"

Dawn snorted, causing the phone in Buffy's hand to vibrate.

"Sure."

It was going to be a long conversation. One in which Buffy was determined not to mention the FBI.

**End Notes: I hope this chapter didn't bore you too terribly much. I assure you, eventually, I'll get to serial killers and demons, but I'm planning for a long set up. More on Reid and Buffy's correspondence in the next update! Review and let me know if you're still enjoying it. **


	4. Chapter 3: Lies We Tell Ourselves

**Disclaimer: I do not own **_**Criminal Minds **_**or **_**Buffy the Vampire Slayer. **_

**A/N: I'm not dead. So sorry for the long break. I had several original fiction deadlines I had to meet (and four more publishers have accepted my stories YAY). Then my body decided to go on strike. So, please excuse the excuses. January should bring plenty of updates for this story, so long as my computer holds out and I don't require any more surgery.**

**A/N2: Setting- I realize I haven't really mentioned the CM setting. It's season 2, but the prologue was **_**not**_** set during "Fisher King" (in my mind, Dr. Reid decided to visit his mom again after she returned to the sanitarium, and was, once more, interrupted by work and his insecurities) or in "No Way Out" (sorry, has nothing to do with Frank). A few people have asked if the serial killer mentioned in the prologue is relevant to the story…why, yes, yes it is. *evil smirk* All in due time, kiddies. **

**

* * *

**

**Chapter 3: Lies We Tell Ourselves**

"_Reasoning at every step he treads,_

_Man yet mistakes his way,_

_Whilst meaner things, whom instinct leads,_

_Are rarely known to stray_."

~William Cowper

Buffy had really meant to keep it a secret. She should have known better: "You still there?"

Dawn paused a moment. When her voice returned, the tone was one Buffy recognized well. It was definitely her I-can't-believe-monks-crafted-me-from-_your_-genes voice, not to be mistaken with the I-can't-believe-you're-the-oldest voice.

"So, you thought it would be a great idea to research your secret crush, who happens to work for the FBI?" Dawn digested the statement: "And, just to review, 'works for the FBI' means he's an actual agent, not an accountant, bookkeeper, secretary…?" She didn't wait for Buffy to continue. "So, an FBI agent. I should be worried, yet he's decidedly more tame that your last few love interests."

"Dawnie." Buffy sighed. "He's not my crush. Or love interest. He's a guy. A friend. Sort of. A guy friend."

"A secret guy-friend with interesting guy parts and an eye-catching weapon at his belt?"

"Dawnie!"

"Okay, okay." Dawn bit down a chuckle. "But seriously, Buffy, why are you keeping him a secret? Willow could have helped you with the research, and Xander could have. . . Well, Xander would probably just interrogate you. Still, it's weird. Are you ashamed of him or something?"

Buffy scoffed into the receiver before stomping back to her bed. It greeted her backside with a comfy hug. "I'm not ashamed of him, Dawnie. There's nothing to be ashamed of. And, yeah, I'm sure I'll hear about it when everyone finds out that I've been all top-secret with a Fed." She sighed, unsure of how to actually spit out an answer. After all, she wasn't really sure what the answer _was_. "It's just…"

"He's yours," Dawn finished.

Buffy leaned back, relaxing; she could practically hear her little sister nodding. "When did you get all insightful?" Buffy asked, smiling. The smile quickly faded and she sat up straight. "Wait-what did you do to make you all insightful? Are you keeping secrets, Dawn Marie Summers?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Dawn replied, but her voice pitched.

Buffy's eyes widened. "What's that I hear in the background? You're not in your dorm."

"I-uh-Buffy!" Dawn snapped. "Would you quit changing the subject? You're just too embarrassed to talk about your FBI boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend!"

"Is so."

"Is not, Dawn-" Buffy cut off, staring down at cell phone as if it had betrayed her. Soon. Soon she would find out how video chat worked. She lifted the cell to ear again, listening carefully. "Are you in a car? Are you in a _guy's_ car?"

"I'm hanging up on you."

Buffy pouted slightly. "Fine. Leave me all in the dark after I've spilled info on my secret pen-pal. That's fair."

Dawn huffed into the phone but the line didn't disconnect. "Ok, do you want to know what I think?" She immediately interrupted Buffy's coming response. "Nevermind. I'll tell you anyway. I think the reason why you're keeping this guy to yourself is so that you can delay getting him involved in our crazy world. Which is of the good. You want to have a normal friendship with someone who doesn't know you inside and out. But, if you go snooping for dirty laundry on him, well… That sorta takes away the 'getting to know you' portion of the friendship. It's sorta important."

Damn. Buffy hated it when her little sibling played the wisdom card. "What if he turns out to be…you know, evil-ish?"

Dawn mused a moment before replying. "Willow taught me some pretty nifty ways to flag people on the internet, keep track of slayers who might have accidentally made the evening news. Why don't you let me look up this Spencer Reid guy, and if I find anything hinky, or if something suspicious is posted on the web, I'll call you and let you know."

"In other words, you want to snoop."

"Yeah." Dawn giggled. "Who said creepy stalker behavior isn't fun? Plus, it'll save you the icky feeling when you're writing him."

Buffy took a moment, fiddling with the edge of her quilt. "Fine," she muttered. "Listen, I've got to go, Dawnie."

"Big bad?"

Buffy snorted. "Medium-sized bad. Leaving half-masticated dog all over the old downtown area. The juniors are busy on a get-to-know-inner-slayer retreat with Xander. Should be home soon." She swallowed hard. "Goodnight, Dawn. You and car-guy be careful." As an afterthought, she added, "use protection."

Dawn groaned. "I don't know what you're talking about," she repeated, and ended the call.

Buffy smiled to herself before crawling back off of the bed. She gave the computer one last, worried glance before closing it shut. Spencer Reid would have to wait; there was evil to slay.

* * *

The lighting cast orange shadows over the small crowd, as glowing and rich as the brew filling most of the glasses being passed and slid and sipped. Music played, indistinct and un-listened to by most of the patrons swaying to its beat. The tables were full, the waiting mass content to move about the open floor, but those there for the release and not the prowl found the chairs more than welcome.

J.J.'s laughter was lost in the sound of the bar's chatter, but the joy showed on her reddened cheeks. Emily didn't spare the woman a glance, instead hiding her face in one hand, lost in the shame kindled by her admittedly terrifying first experience with a boxed home perm as a teen. Penelope, who had been the one to force the tale from the profiler, was still chuckling into the straw of her fruity cocktail. The technical analyst shook her head, forcing down her amusement.

"Priceless," J.J. managed before following Garcia's lead. The giggles drifted away with the change of songs.

"Yeah, yeah," Emily breathed. "Don't you dare pretend you've never chemically burned your hair. . ."

"Noted," Penelope chirped.

Eager to change the subject, Prentiss scanned the crowd. Though officially a "girls' night" the three usually invited most of their team to drinks. She spotted Derek maneuvering past an eager red-headed woman, a cadet who frequented his usual coffee shop if Emily's memory served her correctly, and elbowed Garcia with a roll of her eyes.

"Looks like Morgan's having better luck than us."

Penelope saw him, her lips forming a line when she watched the flirtatious display. She snorted. "Boys will be boys," she muttered, before turning back to the other two women. "Speaking of which, am I going to have to be the one to bring up our mysteriously absent Dr. Reid."

"Mysteriously absent?" Emily echoed. Her dark maroon painted lips curled into a grin. "You mean, Morgan wasn't able to talk him into coming? How did Reid manage to wiggle his way out?"

Penelope smirked, her eyes narrowed sagely as she leaned into the table. "Oh, so you didn't hear?"

J.J. leaned forward as well, subconsciously propping her elbow onto the table to hide her face. "Does this have to do with the way Spence has been acting over the past week or so?"

Garcia shot the distant Morgan a glance, making sure he wasn't watching their table, before nodding. Emily looked from one woman to the other, confused.

"Something wrong with Reid?" Prentiss asked, raising a brow.

"Depends on who you ask," Penelope teased, taking a long draw from her drink. At J.J.'s pleading pout, she continued, "Ok, ok, so here's the thing. A few days ago, I see my delicious chocolate knight…"

"We're talking about Morgan, right?" Emily interrupted.

Penelope ignored her. "And Derek was all a fuss over Spencer, and I quote, 'keeping secrets'. Apparently, Spencer lied when Derek asked him about a few letters he's been carrying. Letters written on purple paper. Scented purple paper."

Prentiss raised a brow. "Wait-you think Reid has a _girlfriend_?"

Garcia smiled knowingly but shrugged. "Or maybe just a pen-pal of the girly paper using variety. Derek seems to think he's up to something."

A moment of thoughtful silence passed between the three, and they found their narrow gazes once again drawn to Derek's now dancing form.

J.J. shook her head, clearing the fog. "Ok, guys, did we seriously just have a gossip session about Spencer? Our Spencer Reid?"

"Not so much a gossip session as a briefing to update the circle on the state of our youngest," Penelope defended. On a second thought, she chuckled, "We really need to get our own lives, don't we?"

"Definitely," Emily agreed, and threw back a shot.

* * *

…_I enjoyed receiving your letter as well, Buffy. I can honestly say that I've never been very good at starting conversations with strangers, either. My friend, Derek, has this infallible ability to call women to him with a single flash of his smile. No doubt, even you would fall subject to his charms. He has attempted to teach me his ways, but I'm afraid that women don't respond very well to statistics and Star Trek references. I'm surprised you've lasted this long - not that I consider you in that regard, as one of those women. I'm sorry, I'm getting off subject. _

_You mentioned your sister Dawn at Stanford. How is she enjoying…_

_

* * *

_

…_Ok, Agent I-have-a-fancy-title-job, poke fun at my use of the word "freelance" all you want. For your information, I have held a regular job before, and not just one that left me smelling like fried foods. I was a high school counselor for a short while. In fact I was offered the job, didn't even have to apply. Of course, that wasn't due so much to the handful of classes I took in college as my horrible high school track record. The principal at the time thought I could relate to young people. Obviously, he never asked Dawnie her opinion on the matter… _

_

* * *

_

There was something _strange _going on. Maybe not quite "musical demon" strange or "bunnies are planning the apocalypse" strange. But _strange, _nevertheless.

Xander Harris had been called many things in his life, but unobservant wasn't one of them. Wait, scratch that, plenty of women in his life- girlfriends, teachers, Mom - had told him how very unobservant he was, but not when it came to his favorite slayer acting less than slayer like.

And Buffy was acting…odd. Xander recognized this behavior. She was hiding something. And it had to do with what she'd received in the mail. At first, Xander had assumed it involved a certain credit card statement and a pair of boots. But when the bill collectors didn't begin their ritualistic calling, he began to worry. Whatever it was, whatever was going on with her, was a hot topic amongst two of his mini-slayers as well.

"Goofy smiles one minute and woe-is-me the next." Lily pulled her PJ clad legs under her skinny form and tossed back her curling red hair. Her voice was low, even though the subject of the conversation was currently out an a sweep of the city. "And you heard her yesterday, when we touched her ledger?"

"Totally bitchy if we touch her things," Judy agreed, passing the bowl of popcorn to Lily.

Xander stood behind them, leaning onto the back of the couch to pass them two cans of root beer. Though his mouth was open, ready to defend, he decided it best to stay silent a moment longer. In his head, he could hear Willow shaming him for his sneakiness.

Lily licked salt from her lips. "You know what it is, don't you?"

Judy's can popped open with a bubbly roar, spray coating a lock of her brown hair. She slurped up the foam, nodding to the other girl with a knowing look in her eye.

Xander thought his brain might melt out his ears. Listening in on gossip was harder than he'd imagined.

"Her period's all wonky," Judy finally said, throwing her feet onto the ottoman.

Lily snorted. "That's not it!"

No. It wasn't. Xander had a calendar marked for such an occasion. He rocked on the balls of his feet, almost ready to flat out ask, when Lily rolled her eyes.

"She's writing someone," Lily stated, proud of the theory, "and someone's writing her. Someone we don't know. And she's trying to hide it from us."

Xander stilled, his brow wrinkled in confusion as he looked from one slayer to the next. Whatever Judy had to say on the matter disappeared when both sets of eyes realized the commercial break had ended and the recap for their show was rolling across the television screen. The one-eyed carpenter suddenly felt the weariness of his workday on his shoulders. His role as gossip-spy had been a bust. Whatever was up with Buffy didn't have do to with writing letters…He chuckled at the mere idea of Buffy taking the time to write. She hadn't even filled out a Christmas card in, well, ever. Shaking his head, he stepped away from the duo.

Buffy writing letters to some secret pen-pal. _Sure. _That would happen.

* * *

Reid ignored the vibrating of his phone when he saw that it was Morgan calling. Again. Opting, instead, to tap his pen against the parchment paper laid out across his breakfast table. He'd already politely declined Penelope's invitation to "hang out" tonight. And then he'd declined once more after her insistence that "everyone" was coming, Hotch was even bringing Haley by the bar after the babysitter showed up. Reid smiled faintly at the thought of seeing the usually uptight, rigid man laughing with is wife at his side. An odd, too rare occurrence. Garcia had quit calling after she'd been forced to confess that Gideon wouldn't be joining them.

But, apparently, she'd only quieted so that she might sic Derek on the young agent.

As much as Reid enjoyed their company, he was content with his plans for the night, which consisted mainly of finishing a letter.

…_Dawn sounds like an intelligent young woman, and you're clearly proud of her. You don't have to explain her past behavior to me, Buffy. I have no place to judge her. Either of you. You clearly care deeply for your sister, and, no, I don't plan on having her arrested for shoplifting a "nifty jacket." Her actions were very typical for someone suffering the loss of a parent, especially at that age. You were probably both going through a very hard time. _

_When I was child, my father packed up his things and left. I didn't understand why…_

Reid let the words trail on for a few moments, before pulling the pen away. He blinked, surprised with what he'd written within the space of a few paragraphs. It was more than he'd told his team, more than he'd ever wanted to say about his parents. Yet, there's been something easy about sharing the information. And the relief it left him with, that cathartic rush, was almost indescribable.

Nevertheless, his hand moved over the paper, ready to wad it into a ball. It was too much. Even for someone he would probably never see again…But Buffy had shared with him, hadn't she? Whether she'd meant to or not, she'd told him so much about her family. About her mother's death.

His fingers wavered before falling flat.

He picked up the pen, jotting down another line:

_I was on a case in Nevada again recently, Golconda. It's to state's north, no where near Vegas, but it left me thinking about my last visit to my mother…_

It was his none-too-subtle way of bringing up that day again. The day he'd found green eyes staring his way. But it wasn't for the sake of reminiscing.

Over the past few days, Reid had found himself wanting to find out more about Buffy Summers. His curiosity was laced with a fear, distinct and undeniable, of what he might find. He wasn't sure why the urge to know was there, but he knew that his subconscious had a reason for its worry. He'd been taught, when doing his job, to pay attention to fear, study it, understand what exactly it was causing the hair on the back of his neck to rise.

Reid shook his head and moved to jot down a word of conclusion before signing the letter.

Maybe it wasn't Buffy at all. Maybe there was nothing hidden in her past. But Reid knew where the nudging doubt in his mind was coming from: Dana. Buffy had almost completely avoided the subject of Dana when he'd asked a few letters back. Instead, she'd opted to tell him about her sister, Dawn. A half answer: "_no, Dana's not my sister_." But she hadn't said who Dana was, why she, a woman living in Ohio, had chosen to, on her vacation, visit a sanitarium to see a woman who wasn't a relative.

Reid's laptop sat, booted up, to one side where he'd been finishing up research for a paper. He called up a search engine but his fingers failed him before he even began. He closed the computer down, instead. He'd ask Buffy about Dana again. Next time. When he was thinking clearly.

His phone vibrated against the tabletop, and he reached for it. A text message. Morgan. "Jean and Tim have agreed to stay for a drinking game. Get your ass over here, pretty boy."

Reid snorted. Jean and Tim. When would the couple figure out that they'd never win a game against him when the subject was Star Trek trivia? Perhaps they simply enjoyed the large quantities of liquor they were forced to consume…

Sighing, Reid slipped the letter into its envelope and stood. He could mail it on his way to the bar. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to get out. Socialize with someone who actually lived in the state. Buffy was young, pretty, single. She was probably out doing the same. And she was likely good at it, too.

The thought didn't make him feel better, but he slipped on his jacket, nevertheless.

* * *

**End Notes: I probably won't write for outsider (the team/Xander) POVs too often. Ok, so after this chapter, things might get slightly darker as the plot comes into play. Hope this chapter didn't bore you. **


	5. Chapter 4: While You Were Out

**Disclaimer: I do not own _Buffy_ or _Criminal Minds_. Story written to amuse, not to profit. **

**A/N: Thanks! So, finally got my "designated Big Bad" fully fleshed out (teehee). He's not actually in the story yet, but anyhow. . . I'm going to assume all of you, being Reid fans in some way, know about the events of "Revelations" with Hankel, right? Ok, just making sure, don't egg me for asking :D **

**Chapter 4: While You Were Out**

"_Only man clogs his happiness with care, destroying what is with thoughts of what may be." _~John Dryden

Once upon a time, Buffy Summers was fairly certain that she'd been a cat person. This was no longer the case.

Her boots splashed up the gray water from the afternoon rain, the sound echoing off the blue aluminum siding of the storage units. Though the location was well outside the city, she could hear the sound of vehicles speeding along the four-lane, throwing off her keen senses. In one direction traveled eager drivers wishing to get home from late nights at the office and, in the other, bored passengers preparing for a night on the town: Buffy didn't fit either of those categories. _This_ was her job, her shift was now, and her duty was hiding amongst these long lines of short buildings. She'd brought Lily with her - well, truth be told, Lily had driven, and therefore brought her - but Buffy had sent the younger slayer to the closed-down Community Center a mile away, where the last victim had been found, eviscerated. Buffy had decided to canvas the area.

And she'd found a furry friend.

"You are an amusing kind…" The voice was a followed by a delighted purr, a certain excitement behind it. But the source was hidden to Buffy, beyond the crates spilling out of one empty storage slot. Buffy frowned, wondering where the folks who rented the compartment had left to in such a hurry. The new moon sky above did nothing to light her path. "… Believing your bloodline to be so very old, but you are mere infants. Your power nothing compared to what it will one day be. Do you truly know where it comes from? Or, should I say, do you _understand _its source?" A low growl disturbed the question, but it cut off suddenly. The creature's mood became mellow once more, even lighthearted if its voice was anything to judge by. "I could tell you, if you'd like. The story of it all…the beginning to the end."

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Jeeze," she breathed, turning a full circle in search of the creature. "You know, there's sorta this villain cliché where the bad guy spills all to the hero at the last minute. Maybe you've heard of it? Let's just skip it, I'd rather just slay your ass and have a DIY pedi tonight."

Movement to her left distracted her from the claw sweeping out from her right. She ducked down just in time to take a stinging claw to the top of her arm. The cut wasn't deep enough to hit anything major, thanks to the thickness of her leather jacket, but it was not the first wound of the evening. Thin lines left strings of red beads of liquid across the tender skin of her bare upper chest. Three slashes also marked the denim above her knee. The slayer scowled. If this kept up, she was going to lose the entire outfit.

Buffy crouched low, glaring into the shadows and knowing beyond a doubt that her feline adversary could see much better in the dim lighting. "Guess a day time attack is too much to ask for?"

"I'm the father of it." A hiss sounded from above, skittering claws across the metal roof coming to a stop, but before Buffy could move forward, the demon leaped down and slid past a brim-filled dumpster, its spilling contents pushing her back a few steps. "That particular cliche. It's mine. I'm a teller of tales, you know. A speaker of truths of today, of yesterday, of tomorrow. Don't you wish to know them?"

Were-cat had been her first guess, but she'd soon ruled that out when the demon had started talking. And he had one serious case of the _blah-blahs_.

"Speaker of truths?" Buffy pulled up the small battle ax resting against her hip, preparing for an attack. She could feel it coming, from behind, yet she didn't turn in preparation, trying to draw the demon in closer. "That's funny. I kinda took you as the Slicer of Entrails. Maybe I've been following the wrong guy all night?"

The purr of pleasure was close. The sound of it left Buffy queasy. _Right guy_, she mentally noted.

"Tasty, tasty bits," the demon replied. "I did enjoy those little lures."

Buffy's muscles tightened across her back. A word stuck out: lures. Another came to mind immediately: crap. Now was looking like as good a time as any to text for backup.

"This is your version of a trap?" Buffy cocked her head, looking unimpressed. "Gotta say, I've see better, Catboy."

The chuckle was close. Buffy realized that her fake-out wasn't working, so she turned. The leopard man was crouched low, licking her blood off of his claws. His lips were cut into a constant red grin below his whiskers. Yellow eyes, overpowered almost entirely by wide pupils, danced over her form.

"Trap?" he purred. "No trap. My Lord plays his games, but they don't entertain me much of late. They don't make for decent stories. And I do love to retell a good tale. So I've decided to give you a boon, Slayer, a little drip-drop of warning." He paused, a purr deep in his chest. "To bring you into his game."

Buffy didn't lower the ax, but she did raise a brow.

The leopard stood slowly on two awkward legs, his shape looking more like a man's. "You're going to be hunted Slayer. Soon." His head lowered, the moonlight bouncing off his eyes in white halos. "And it won't be demons chasing you. Your precious humans. They'll seek your blood, and they'll find it."

* * *

Dawn Summers was not a liar.

Ok, so maybe she had lied in the past, sure. And maybe she had to leave out certain details of her "origin story" on an almost daily basis. Still, she didn't lie for the sake of lying. And she wouldn't lie to her sister unless she knew for certain it would help Buffy cope.

So, for Buffy's own sake, Dawn had decided not to tell her sister that Stanford was no longer on her agenda. Dawn had also decided to leave out the part where she'd left the college for a roadtrip in search of a certain book (even Dr. Malestrom hadn't realized there was a Volume 2 to his tome) and a certain amateur warlock (who, it turned out, wasn't a warlock in any sense of the word). In fact, Mr. Pre-Law was a lot like her…

Dawn shook her head. _No boy thoughts_, she reminded herself. Because she was here, in a small town outside of God-Knows-Where, using the library's public wi-fi to keep up appearances, to keep her sister happy. To keep her sister from chasing her down halfway across the country. Which meant turning in online assignments and earning at least a few linguistic credits for the semester.

Dawn booted up the computer, pulling a file of written notes on her translations from her bag and flipping through them. At first, she'd barely noticed the faint chirp from the laptop, but when she looked up, an icon was blinking red at the right hand corner of the screen. Dawn's brow wrinkled in confusion until she remembered her flagged list of names and aliases, the slayers Willow had asked her to keep tabs on.

She hesitated over the icon, chewing her lip in worry. There was almost never an alert sent out on the girls, but when one popped up, it was rarely good news. A name in the media, in a government file that wasn't necessarily meant for the public, in a federal watch list, in a coroner's notes… That she hadn't checked her alerts in a couple days didn't ease her nerves. If something had popped up earlier in the week, it might already be too late to contact the Council for help. Dawn shuttered but clicked open the info, nevertheless.

The name highlighted across the screen made her straighten in surprise. And relief. Surely, someone in the FBI was bound to show up on her flags more often than the average Joe. "Spencer Reid," Dawn muttered. Her eyes widened as she read on. "Oh no…"

* * *

"And then he ran away," Buffy concluded, absentmindedly snatching a pear out off the counter's lone fruit basket.

Xander nodded in thought, leaning against the kitchen counter. "Like a scaredy-cat?"

Buffy glowered and took a bite. "Yes, Xander. Poof, gone. Message delivered."

He raised a finger, pointing to midair, as if confused by part of the story. "And you say he was something of a Chatty Catty?" He paused, looking abashed. "Sorry, that was poor pun, even by my standards."

Buffy chose to ignore the comment. "It wasn't exactly the strangest encounter I've ever had on patrol, but it warrants research. Maybe we could give Giles a call, see if his team can find anything on giant cats who talk way too much."

"Catman's not really the king of novel info," Xander muttered, popping open a can of orange soda. "I mean, being hunted by your fellow humans? That's sort of Miss Cleo style fortune telling. Between the Sunnydale PD and the not-so-secret military groups we've encountered over the years, you've pretty much had the pleasure of being chased down by plenty of creatures with a pulse."

Buffy stiffened, sitting the half eaten fruit down. Her appetite had disappeared as soon as Xander's words sunk in. He was right, the demon's warning was vague and could have applied to a number of groups who'd love to get their hands on a slayer. Yet, Buffy's mind kept circling back to Spencer. More specifically, to the FBI.

"Buffy?"

Xander's hand was at her elbow, a worried expression on his face that instantly told her he'd had to repeat her name. Buffy forced a small grin to appear, shaking her head.

"Stupid demons ruining my night."

A crooked smile told her he'd excused her momentary zone-out. He puffed out a sigh, and pulled an envelope from their stack of bills. "I almost forgot," he said, "this came for you." Xander chuckled. "You know, the girls have a very interesting theory about you and the mailbox…"

Buffy folded it, tucking it into her back pocket, and cut him off, "Oh, jeeze, Lily's probably going to steal all the hot water when she realizes I'm not already in the shower…" Without another word, she disappeared out of the kitchen, taking the steps upstairs two at a time.

Inside her room, she paused, breathing heavily, not in exhaustion, but anticipation. _"Your precious humans. They'll seek your blood, and they'll find it." _Buffy tightened her jaw. No. She refused let some stupid demon get her this worked up. There had to be something in Spencer's letter, anything that would remind her that he was too nice a guy to turn on her for no reason. After all, if he was really up to something, Dawn would have figured it out by now.

Buffy pulled the envelope from her pocket. It was heavy in her hand, thick, and she wondered how her pen-pal had managed to receive her last letter and write back so quickly. "Because geniuses don't spend an hour wondering if they've misspelled every other word they've written," Buffy muttered, smiling slightly.

She flipped the envelope over, her eyes scanning the address, and a frown appeared on her face. Not from Spencer. Not even close. Buffy's brow wrinkled in confusion.

"Dana?"

The other slayer hadn't written Buffy before. In fact, Buffy hadn't realized that Dana even had the Ohio base's address. Buffy moved to rip the letter open, but stopped at the sound of a Latin beat at her hip. Slipping out the cell phone, she gave it a glimpse before answering.

"Dawnie? Don't you have a night class on Tuesdays?"

"Buffy, I…" Dawn released a pint up breath against the receiver. "Gosh, you're like the nosiest sister ever. It was canceled tonight. But that's not what I called about."

Buffy sat down on the edge of the bed, leaving the envelope propped against her lamp. She held the phone closer. "Dawn, is something wrong? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Dawn whined, but the front was lost when her voice returned, somber. "Listen, Buffy, I was calling because a report popped up on Spencer Reid. There weren't many details in the local news, at least not about what happened to him, but a few bloggers seemed to have gotten more of the scoop, and I'm sure more articles will pop up over the next few…"

"Dawn," Buffy snapped, cutting off the ramble. She took a nervous breath. "What happened?"

"Did you hear about those murders in Georgia?" Dawn hesitated, but went on without her sister's reply. She knew very well that Buffy rarely picked up a newspaper. "The FBI were there, investigating them. One agent was abducted by the killer… The official news report didn't give a name, but the rumor mills say it was Spencer."

* * *

It was raining when their plane had landed, but the world had seemed unusually quiet, the water drowning out all other sounds. Not an odd occurrence for the team. They were almost always less talkative on return trips, usually exhausted, dazed by an in-flight nap and numbed by the case they'd left behind.

The break from normality came when Reid left without being asked, without waiting for anyone to excuse him from his paperwork. Reid didn't leave the bull pen before everyone else. Ever.

"I could stay a while," Morgan insisted. He blinked, retracting the offer. "What do you say we go get a bite to eat, kid?"

The older agent had insisted on driving Reid home, promising him his car would make it from the office to his apartment, somehow. The car ride had been almost as quiet as the plane ride. Morgan hadn't questioned Reid when he stopped to check his mail. Hadn't interrogated Reid about the envelope culled from the rest and tucked in his back pocket. What Morgan did do, though, was push his way past the front door before it could be closed.

Spencer forced a smile onto his face. "Morgan, I'm fine. I _can_ manage to make a sandwich on my own, you know." Shaky fingers swept back a tuff of long brown hair. "The hospital cleared me before we left. I'm fine. I'll _be_ fine."

Derek ran a hand over the day-old stubble on his chin, thinking it over. Dark eyes still trained on the younger man, he finally took a reluctant step back. "I'll call you in the morning," Morgan said, as if it were a threat. He pinched his lips together, stopping whatever was about to leave his mouth, and shook his head. "You worried us, kid. Hope you don't make a habit of it."

"I'll be fine."

With the door closed, lock in place, the quiet deafening, Reid thought he would break down. But he couldn't. Despite the pain the tiny fractures below his toes caused, his feet wanted him to stand. His legs refused to let him near the seat. Spencer paced the space of the main room twice before he finally deposited his go-bag on the floor. Not its usually spot - Reid was in the habit of exchanging the dirty clothes within for clean ones. Of checking his things before bed.

Instead, he kicked the bag further from his path.

Because that's where _they _were. Waiting for him. The bottles were secured inside, wrapped in his vest. The ones he'd taken from a corpse. The ones he'd hidden from his team.

Reid's body trembled in nervous anticipation. He clenched his eyes shut, begging the headache to go away on its own. It didn't listen. A nagging voice inside told him it would if he'd open the bag.

He was close, too close. Reid stepped away, walking to his kitchen in search of a glass of water. There was a dish left in the sink, crusted casserole stuck to the ceramic. It smelled like fish. Fish hearts and livers.

Sizzling.

Reid dropped the glass back onto the counter and slid to the floor, pulling his long legs into his battered chest. He could remember feeling his knees under his chin when his parents fought. Could remember hiding in the kitchen in hopes of hearing more. Hearing a reason for it all. Because if there was a reason, there was an argument that could be made. He could interfere, give an answer, solve the puzzle, stop the battle. And they could be happy.

The bile was burning at the back of his throat. Spencer was so sick of it. Of remembering things. And yet he craved it. Needed it. And the answers memories gave.

He wished he could see his mother's face again.

Reid didn't realize his body was rocking until the envelope snagged the front of the cabinet at his back. His hand caught the paper before it hit the floor, finger smoothing it over the uneven surface of his knee caps. From Buffy. Of course from Buffy. Because, for some reason he couldn't understand, hearing from her mattered.

The date at the top of the letter was several days old. It had probably arrived right before he'd left for Georgia. Reid ripped it open, pulling out the sheet of purple stationary, his eyes gliding over the words. A slight smile curled at his lips: he'd only heard her voice once, and, yet, it stuck with him. In every word of every letter, he could hear her.

The smile slipped away as he remembered where their conversation had left off.

_Our dads deserve some sort of metal for picking the worst time ever to ditch their kids. Sorry, I probably shouldn't say that - I should be all non-judge-y or whatever, but… It's true isn't it? God, look at me, dumping my baggage on you. You shouldn't have to come home from work and read about my parental issues. It's just, I don't think my dad, probably yours too, even knows what sort of damage disappearing can do. Not the burden they left us with, but, you know, just the being gone. _

Reid's fingers crinkled the sides of the paper, his breathing loud in the silence. The sentiment was too much, too familiar, because Reid knew exactly what sort of damage could be done by a father. He'd seen it in Hankel.

He'd seen it in himself.

_Why is it that no matter how many people are standing beside you, one person's absence can make you feel so alone?_

The question actually hurt. As illogical as Spencer knew it was to believe words could cause physical pain, he would have sworn reading, hearing Buffy's voice, ask him that raw question was what caused the ache across his chest.

Not for the first time in his life, he felt alone. Only, he wasn't. His companion just happened to be a few states away.

The letter fluttered down to the floor. He followed the action, sliding down beside it, his ear against the cool tile, where he could rest, let the tremors crawl over him, and forget the day.

* * *

"Buffy? Buffy, are you still with me?"

Buffy loosened her grip on the cell phone before it could crack. Her free hand was planted at her lips, pressed there to keep them closed. To stop herself from screaming out in frustration. The story Dawn had given her though…The story was almost too much for her to stand. Buffy was used to monsters, and she'd run into the human variety before. But usually they weren't after her friends. Especially new friends who didn't…Who couldn't…Who weren't…

Buffy rolled her eyes at her own inability to focus. She couldn't come up with a reason why the information bothered her so much. Spencer was an FBI agent. He dealt with dangerous situations. He was trained to understand criminals. She shouldn't be this bothered, not over someone she barely knew. Somehow, acknowledging that didn't help.

"Is there more?" Buffy managed, her voice sounding strong. Detached. "Is there more information?"

Dawn had given her the timeframe. How long he'd been kidnapped. What the murderer had done to those couples, to those people. But she didn't have much on Reid himself. Rescued, _check_. Alive, _check_. That was it.

"Not yet." Dawn sighed. "I'm sorry, Buffy. I wish I could have gotten this to you sooner."

Buffy shrugged that off. She didn't want to consider what would have happened if Spencer hadn't been rescued. If he was still down there and she'd been given the option of finding him on her own.

Would she have done it? Packed up for Georgia to find him? Buffy knew she would have. But she wasn't sure what the outcome would have been. Or if human blood would have stained her hands before it was over.

Buffy shook off the chilling thought. Spencer was fine. He'd been found. She wasn't going to concentrate on the rest.

"Dawnie, you can find out more, can't you?" Buffy said. "I know you can find out more than what the news releases."

"Willow might have showed me a few tricks," Dawn admitted. "But are you sure you want me to look into this?"

Buffy closed her eyes, shook her head. _Let it go_, she told herself. It didn't work. "Yeah. I want to know everything. He's a friend."

Dawn was quiet a moment. When her voice returned, it was more determined. "And we take care of friends," she said. "Call you later, Buffy."

"Love you, Dawnie."

**End Notes: Ok, so, there might…and I stress the word *might*… be a short companion story written about the adventures of Dawn in this universe. I'm not sure yet. Anyhow, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Any comments, suggestions, random smiley/frowny faces will be appreciated, so drop a review. **


	6. Chapter 5: Monsters I Have Been

**Disclaimer: I do not own **_**Buffy **_**or **_**Criminal Minds**_**. Story written to amuse, not to profit. **

**A/N: Note, letters take a few days to receive-that's the nature of the postal system. And it's the nature of people not to write back directly after receiving a letter. I'm just mentioning that give you a better understanding of the passage of time in this chapter. **

* * *

**Chapter 5: Monsters I Have Been**

_"All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves. We must die to one life before we can enter another." -Anatole France_

Eight days. Three staked vampires. Two resolved mystical mishaps. And zero letters from Dr. Spencer Reid. No news was good news, right?

Yet there was a steady numbness to her limbs, a blur at her eyes, a haze filling her head. Because Dawn had called back, less than a day after she'd seen the flag on Dr. Reid. Buffy wasn't about to question _how_ her little sister had managed to get more info than a national news network, but the younger woman had somehow accumulated a full report on the incident, including a few speculations from a local psychic amongst Georgia's finest, and perhaps most secretive, witches' coven.

Buffy had told Dawn she wanted the details behind Spencer's abduction. And she had. At the time. Now she wasn't so sure. It was a sad but true fact, Buffy Summers had suffered worse than that lone agent. She'd taken her share of beatings. She dealt them more often than not. Still, she was chilled at the thought of the man she'd been writing to tied to chair, fearing for his life. Watching people die. Utterly helpless.

Horror was an everyday occurrence for a slayer. And she'd seen _so many_ strangers suffer from evil hands. But when she thought of Spencer Reid, the emotion that crept up in her… Buffy wasn't sure where it came from, but it reminded her of the time she'd found Xander hanging from a cross, bleeding.

She might not have known Spencer long, but somehow, his voice, speaking in each written word across that yellow parchment, was familiar. It was that of an old friend's. And without hearing it, without seeing her name in his handwriting…

"So, why don't you slay Pokemon again?"

Buffy was stirred from her Caramel Cocogasm, wiping off the bit of sugared liquid sliding over her bottom lip before she shot Xander a glare. She held the drink closer, letting the steam warm her chin. "Same reason we don't slay Smurfs. It's _so_ someone elses' problem."

Xander smiled, balancing the two paper sacks of artery-clogging goodness he'd picked up for the girls on the railing. The small burger shack was overrun with patrons, but, somehow, the snowy shadow off the building was unusually secluded.

"So, you were listening this time," he stated. "Hard to tell these days. Something's bugging you, Buff."

"I'm that obvious?"

Xander handed her one of the bags to carry. "You're in the zone. I just can't tell which zone. Is there an upcoming apocalypse I need to be planning for? Because, I'd really like to be in the 'know.'"

The ghost of a smile passed across her lips. "Not that I know of, but it's still winter. World ending events are usually spring occasions. Much like formals and flings."

"True." Xander nodded along. He followed her gaze to the ugly gray pile of scooped ice on the side of the parking lot. Not exactly scenic. "So, I spoke to Giles last night. He said you'd called him back, told him you might be staying in Cleveland longer than expected. Not that you're unwelcome, but why am I last to know?"

Buffy shook her head. Hearing from Giles wasn't too strange. In fact, it was expected. But when the man had asked when she was planning to return come to Scotland… "Decision of the split-second variety. Mind having me a bit longer?"

"Since _me casa _is quite literally _su casa_? Nope." Xander put a hand on her shoulder, drawing her full attention. The grip was calloused, though from work or stake-carving duty, no one could be sure. "This have to do with the case of the disappearing Catman? And his idle threat?"

"_You're going to be hunted, Slayer. Soon. And it won't be demons chasing you. Your precious humans. They'll seek your blood. . . and they'll find it."_

Not exactly words Buffy would be forgetting any time this decade. Threats were called threats for a reason. As was also the case with warnings. However she interpreted it, Buffy was left on edge, and in no small way due to her involvement with just the sort of "humans" who would be prone to seeking her "blood." Of course, every time that thought swam to the front of her mind, she remembered that she was expecting a letter that wasn't coming.

"There's that," Buffy confirmed.

"Who are you?"

Buffy raised a brow at the somber expression on her friend's face, but he only shook his head, forcing her to hear the question again: "Who are you?"

She couldn't help the slight tug of a smile at the corner of her mouth. "I'm Buffy, the vampire slayer."

Xander stood a bit taller and withdrew his hand. "That's what I thought. See you in the car."

Buffy stared after him, her cheeks hot with a sudden rush of adrenaline. Sitting around, thinking about what needed to be done. That wasn't her. That wasn't Buffy. And that certainly wasn't the vampire slayer.

Eight days. Seven days too long.

Buffy stepped down the ramp, headed toward the cloud of exhaust pumping out of their truck. If she wanted to hear back from Spencer, she was going to have to take matters into her own hands. Write him back. And keep hope.

* * *

From that height, the fall always _hurt_. The numbness was there, of course, would be until another craving passed his way. But the hurt wasn't a physical one. It was emotional. It was the epitome of frustration. Because every part of him knew it was all downhill from here.

Reid licked the dampness from his bottom lip, rolled over on the sofa, kicking off the ice pack that had been pressed against his foot.

The frustration, though, this time, had little to do with the eventual downhill slide and more to do with the ride itself. Reid didn't like it when the present mixed with the past. But he especially didn't like it when _she _decided to make an appearance. Of course, he knew what that meant. His subconscious was trying to remind him of her correspondence.

Though the light of the room was dim, he could see the stack of mail on the end table, the one he'd picked up after he'd gotten back from the case in New York. There wasn't much. But there she was, sitting on top, stabbing him with a sliver of guilt.

Because Buffy had written him. Again. Even after he ignored her last letter.

No, ignored wasn't the right word. He'd done anything but ignore it. He'd memorized it. But as far as a response went?

Reid reached out without sitting up. He switched on the lamp, momentarily blinded by the brightness of the light, and let his fingers crawl over the table. He found the letter and pulled it free from the stack.

This one hadn't even been opened yet. Reid frowned. He shouldn't be feeling guilt, of all things. This woman was practically a stranger to him. He owed her nothing.

Yet his finger slid under the envelope, tearing it open. He told himself that he was simply curious to know what she had said. How she'd said it. What her handwriting looked like this time around.

A passing glance was all he needed to read the first paragraph. He promptly stopped, slapping the paper down across his chest because he was too tired to toss it to the floor.

After the politeness, the cute hello, she'd broken away, her handwriting tighter: _Spencer, I'll be honest with you…_

He knew it was coming. Before the split second it took his subconscious to absorb the page, he knew.

_My sister has a friend in Georgia. She told us what happened down there. About the guy your team went after. You were on the news. I don't have all the details but I know enough. _

He pushed himself up on this elbows, lifting the letter, giving it a second glance. There were double loops in the letter 'o' . Nothing definitive. Nothing she didn't use before. But their presence there, when they seemed to missing from the rest of the words…They were an indicator of deceit. Not necessarily a flat out lie, but a secretive personality, self-deceit. Still -

Reid shook his head, cutting his thoughts off. "She's trying to make me feel better, and I'm profiling her," he whispered. He sneered down at himself, feeling the need for a shower. "Well done, Spencer, well done…"

_I know that you're not OK. _

He folded the letter, slid it under his glass of water as if it might get up and walk away. His sweater hit the floor. Another loss of routine. Another moment that was completely not him. On his way to the bathroom, he looked over his shoulder, stared at the abandoned clothing, tempted to put it where it belonged, and resisted the urge.

The water pounding his back didn't help. And it did absolutely nothing to block out her letter. If anything, the constant sound of the droplets hitting flesh made her voice louder:

…_And maybe that last letter wasn't exactly the best reading material for someone who'd just - you know what, I take that back. It was perfectly on subject, and you know it. That's why you didn't write back, isn't it? Well, guess what, buddy, I'm not going to let you hide out in your genius cave and drown in self-pity. Whether you write back or not, I'm still here. _

He hated to admit it, but she had a knack for profiling. Reid smirked, getting shampoo in his mouth. "Maybe I should ask Hotch about hiring her," he muttered.

_I'm here, Spencer. And you're going to continue to get crazy letters from your crazy stalker chick in Ohio. (Though, I'd greatly appreciate it if you didn't tell your friends I'm a stalker. Something tells me that's not taken lightly at the FBI headquarters.) Back on subject though, yeah, you can feel alone standing in a crowd, but that doesn't mean you_ are_ alone. And it doesn't mean you can ignore the people around you. _

A towel blotting off his face, he stepped out of the stall, feeling a surge of anger at her words. He could ignore her. He could ignore all of them, if he wanted to. And those looks they gave him. The ones that said, "We know." It was his right; it was his choice. He didn't have to face a single one of them if he didn't want to…

_So talk to me, Spencer. Or don't. But don't expect me to disappear. Fair warning, though, if you don't open up a new topic of conversation soon, I'm going back to the pumps versus mules discussion. _

"Shoes?"

No. Absolutely not. He'd given her all his good statistics on shoe-caused injuries the last time the topic had come up, and she'd refused to listen to him.

"_The price of fashion_," she'd written, the words grave. So much for fractures and nerve damage, Buffy had insisted that she had to have three inches or higher in order to actually be seen over a check-out counter.

Reid smiled at the exaggeration, his head swimming. This letter, the last, the first: they all seemed to merge as one in his mind. He picked up a pen, sitting down at the table.

_Buffy, _

_I'm fine. Though I might not necessarily look the part, I _am_ an agent of the FBI, and I can handle difficult situations. I can't discuss work with you, so please don't ask. _

_And I absolutely refuse to continue any discussion on heel height or width. Quit wearing those things before you injure yourself. _

_-Spencer_

Not what she wanted to hear. He knew that already. But those were words. She'd asked for words, and she'd receive them.

* * *

…_Trust me, once you see me rocking a pair of six-inch heels, you'll quit pitying my feet. You'll be too busy attempting to scrape your jaw off the floor. _

_But, seriously, Spencer, you're still avoiding the subject. Which is fine. I'm not going to force you to talk about it. This is me being all non-forcing. I just want you to know I'm here. Still here. Which is kind of a funny story, seeing as I currently have a one-way ticket to Scotland in my purse. Care to hear why I'm staying in Ohio?…_

* * *

…_Actually, there's a lack of historical evidence that Haggis is actually Scottish in origin. But, I will agree with you, having stomach in one's stomach doesn't sound very appealing. _

_And, no, I have nothing to add about that case, Buffy. I've already told you, I can't discuss my work. If you continue to ask me…_

* * *

…_Really? Really? Did you just threaten me, Spencer Reid? Well, natural blond or not, I happen to know that the FBI can't call every shoe store in Ohio and insist on a ban of stilettos over two inches._

_At least I hope not. You guys in Quantico are seriously abusing your powers! _

_Oh, and just in case someone hit you with the stupid stick over the past week, I happen to find you more important than a nice pair of heels. So, that threat won't work on me…_

* * *

…_Buffy, I mean it. I don't want to discuss this with you. Stop asking, or I'll be forced to stop responding to your letters…_

* * *

The apartment was empty. Just as it was supposed to be. Reid had been living alone for years, and, usually, he coveted the silence. But, now its emptiness was a betrayal. No judging eyes. No hesitant questions. Far too much freedom to be found in the quiet.

He couldn't restrain himself long, not in these conditions. Reid released a breath, pretended the shaking at his limbs was due to nervousness. There was some merit to the lie. He'd waited for Buffy's reply to come before he'd left for his last case, but it hadn't.

And the lack of her words had left him… bitter. _Angry_. At himself. He knew it wasn't her fault. Buffy had a life. She had things to do that didn't involve writing a stranger. And, he'd been the one to issue the threat: "…_I'll stop responding…" _A part of him had hoped it would be enough to bring an end to the letters. To the responsibility of another friendship to keep alive. Or, at the very least, an end to the subject of their last few correspondences.

Still, another part of him was distressed that she'd been so easy to lose. The polar emotions hadn't helped him stay clean. He'd fiddled with the vials in his pockets more times than he cared to remember. He'd lashed out at his team. Been so negligent that, if it had been any other job and he any less qualified, he would have been fired.

And Ethan's words had left him hollow. Just more proof that even old friends from afar, virtual strangers, could see what was wrong with him. As illogical as the thought was, it terrified him that Buffy might somehow already know.

Like everyone else did.

"It wouldn't be so bad," he said, knowing no one would respond. "It wouldn't be so bad if she knew."

Reid closed his eyes, leaning his back against his front door. His go-bag, full of dirty clothes, hung from his shoulder, but it was the stack of mail in his hand that felt heavy. He hadn't looked through it yet. Didn't want the public to get a glance of his disappointment if he didn't find a perfume scented letter in the mix.

He pushed himself forward, dropping the bag and taking a seat. His fingers rattled the first envelope, an invitation to an alma mater event. The second, a credit card statement.

There it was, thicker than the rest, lavender stationary. He ripped open the envelope without another thought, and before he even looked at the words, he knew she hadn't let up.

It was long, long for Buffy, that is, and it started the same as usual, reminiscing about the day, the week. The dress sale she'd missed. Her kid sister's mysterious boyfriend. Her roommate's lecture on the proper use of an electric sander.

Buffy wasn't exactly an English major and her use of transitional phrases was laughable. Reid had a feeling that she moved from subject to subject much the same way she did when she spoke. One minute lamenting the loss of a lasagna, the next minute cutting him open in search of his innermost secrets.

_...Let's just say, we have a better relationship with our Thai delivery man now. _

_So, I know, Spencer, about what you've been going through lately. I get it. More than you could imagine. I know you probably find that hard to believe, but I do. Just trust me on this. _

_I felt that kind of loneliness once. And I hurt so many people because I didn't want to talk about it. I was angry with the people I loved, felt like they should see what was wrong with me. And, yet, I wouldn't tell them. I pretended I was keeping quiet to save their feelings, for their protection, but the truth was, I was ashamed. For feeling the way I felt, for doing the things I did. _

_I was so alone that I clung to someone who wasn't right for me, punished him and myself physically and emotionally. Used him and let him use me. It was a dangerous game, but I suppose I was kind of addicted to the pain it caused. And he didn't deserve it. I didn't deserve it. _

_But that's what happens when you think you're alone. You get frustrated and you make bad decisions. _

_If you want to quit writing me and destroy the shoe industry, Spencer, that's fine. But, please, just think about what you're doing. You don't deserve to suffer. You're one of the good guys._

_So. This is me dropping the subject now. Buffy out. _

And the end. Reid pinched the bridge of his nose, wincing at the prick behind his eyelids. How could she do it? How could she say all of that and just drop the subject?

It wasn't fair, not in any sense of the word.

And the worst part? He was suddenly worried about her. Reid let out a short laugh, amazed. He was worried about Buffy Summers? No, that wasn't it. He wouldn't lie to himself there. It wasn't entirely worry; it was curiosity. A part of him was dying to know what was between the lines. _Who_ was between the lines. The people who'd hurt her. The man she'd mentioned. The man she'd _used_.

Reid felt a heat at his cheeks. Embarrassed, he ran his clammy palm over his jaw and folded up the letter.

His phone was in his hand before he'd even realized that the curiosity had reached unbearable. It only rang once before Garcia answered.

"Why, if it isn't the good doctor?" The chirp was light-hearted, but Reid could hear the slight strain to her voice. She was tired, probably headed out the door. He chewed his bottom lip, suddenly uneasy about his decision.

"Hi, um, Garcia." He cleared his throat. "I was wondering if you could do me a favor."

"Oh, sweetness, please don't tell me this involves the case you just closed, because I am so not wanting to dig back into the tragic tale of little miss Ripper."

Reid gave the phone a sad smile. "No, it's not about that," he assured her. "Actually, it's kind of personal."

And then he lost his voice. He pulse quickened when his fingers ran over the envelope. He wanted to say Buffy's name. It was easy enough to do. Ask the all-knowing Garcia to look up a few things on his pen-pal. Nothing too deep, even if Penelope could leave him with a full file worth of info in minutes.

Then it would be fair, wouldn't it? He'd be on even ground with Buffy. He'd know what he could say and couldn't. He'd know what to not bring up. He'd know if she was telling the truth about understanding.

"Dana," he said. The word had slipped out so easily that he almost thought he'd imagined saying it.

"Dana?" Garcia echoed.

No, he hadn't imagined it. Reid ran a hand over his face again. Flustered, he gathered his thoughts.

"Yes." Reid sat up a little straighter. "There was a young woman staying at the same sanitarium as my mother, and I know we can't look into patient information, but… I just wanted to know a little more…"

"All you have is her first name?"

Reid was glad for the interruption. "Dana. That's all."

Garcia hummed a little note. "Well, at the very least, I can probably backtrack on our Miss Dana's journey to Bennington and get you a last name. Maybe not exactly in accordance to 'patient confidentiality,' but...Two seconds." The sound of her fingers tapping across a keyboard were almost musical. "And, lucky us, Dana seems to be a fairly unpopular name for that area… _Ah-ha!_ There's a mention of a Dana DiAngelo in the . . ."

Reid cut her off, "Thanks, Garcia. Enjoy your day off."

"Well, ok." Garcia's reply was slow, confused. "Sure, you, too. Say, Reid…Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

The phone was closed before she had a chance to question his reply. He hadn't meant to snap. Especially after she'd just helped him, but Reid didn't have time for a proper conversation, not if he was going to write this letter. Not if he was going to keep his nerve.

He took a breath and pulled a pen out of his pocket.

"It won't be so bad," he assured himself.

* * *

**End Notes: I really must say, this story isn't going to be based entirely around his addiction. Btw, that last scene was set after "Jones," if that detail left a few of you scratching your heads. **


	7. Chapter 6: What Is

**Disclaimer: I do not own **_**Buffy **_**or **_**Criminal Minds**_**. Story written to amuse, not to profit. **

**A/N: I'm back. **_**Err**_**…Surprise? I think I keep giving my stories abandonment issues. Apparently July is going to be my _Give My WIP Stories Love_ month. I hope this chapter came out okay-I'm trying to get back in the groove.  
**

* * *

**Chapter 6: What Is and Never Should Be**

"_We fear violence less than our own feelings. Personal, private, solitary pain is more terrifying than what anyone else can inflict."_

_~Jim Morrison_

"Where do we go from here?" Buffy said.

It felt like those words were from another lifetime. They were old and stale and far too relevant for her liking. Buffy hadn't thought this through, not entirely. Maybe because a part of her didn't expect that Spencer would ever answer.

But he did. The letter in her hand was damp from the sweat at her palm, but she still held it tight against the kitchen counter top.

Xander looked up from the pot of spaghetti, dodging a splatter of tomato sauce from the adjacent skillet, and raised a brow. "You say something, Buff?"

Buffy felt like her throat was closing up. She stood a little taller and hid the distress on her face with a small smile.

"Xander, hey, do you know anything about a drug called Dilaudid?" She tried to keep the emotion from her voice, using her mastery of the fake-dumb-blonde arts to make the question sound like it had something to do with the TV show playing behind her.

"What?" Xander didn't look entirely convinced by the act, but the burn on his finger, dealt by a noodle gone rogue, kept him distracted. "Isn't that like morphine or something?"

Buffy rolled her tongue over her teeth. "Or something," she replied, softly. Even though she'd been the one to ask the question in the first place. What she really wanted to ask was _do you know anyone who's ever been addicted to it?_

Xander didn't seem to notice when she slipped out of the kitchen, muttering something about a shower. By all rights, she needed one. Buffy had taken a solo patrol for the evening and ended up walloped by a sleazy looking vampire in a mini skirt. She'd kind of wished the blood sucker had been a female. No such luck. An easy stake, and she wouldn't have toppled into a pile of fresh graveyard dirt if she hadn't been so distracted.

Yup. It was official. Spencer Reid was entirely to blame for the ruin of her new yellow jacket.

His letter had come yesterday and had been a constant fixture on her since. She had to reread it every few hours just to make sure he'd actually written those words… The confession, flat and detailed, including an explanation of the effects of the drug, including the memories it gave him access to, including the things he wished he could forget…The confession in itself was almost too much. But the closing words, those were the ones she kept pretending weren't real.

_Buffy, sometimes I wish you were here. More than sometimes. I don't know how I can miss being near someone I've only seen one time, but I do. I wish I knew you. _

He'd left it there, not even signing his name. Not taking back a single sentence. Buffy had looked for another page, one she'd missed. There wasn't one.

Buffy made it up the stairs and stopped at her doorway, leaning against it for support. She wasn't out of breath but the sob was deep and came from her chest. She didn't let the rest out. Buffy shrugged it off, trying to shut off the feelings rushing through her, and stepped inside her room.

Buffy hadn't had a place feel this much like home since Sunnydale sank. This room, it reminded her so much of her own. She was going to miss it when she had to go. Because that was inevitable. One day soon, she'd have to move on to the next battle.

She pulled her phone free then set it down on her bedside table instead of dialing her sister. She wasn't going to whine to her younger sibling, damn it. There'd been far too much of that going on lately. Nope, Buffy was going to stay firm. Buffy was going to suck it up. Buffy was going to eat a pint of ice cream while watching the _Lifetime Movie Network_.

She groaned at the break in her thoughts and fell backward onto her bed, glaring up at the ceiling as if it might hold the answers to the universe. And, it kind of did. Because she remembered, right then, what she'd been doing the last time she'd pulled a Dawnie and flung herself down onto the bed with the dramatic stylings of a screeching teenage girl, "Life's unfair."

Last time…last time involved a letter she was supposed to open. She'd drifted off to sleep before she'd ever gotten the chance. Forgotten it. Buffy rolled over, a frown on her face when she looked at her bedside table. No envelope. Had she thrown it away? Given it to someone else to read? She couldn't remember.

She slid down off the mattress, bending down in search. There it was. Buffy reached for it, tugged it loose from between—

"So that's where my fuzzy slippers went to."

And held it up to the light.

_Oh egads_, she felt her face flush with embarrassment. She'd been so caught up in getting mail from Spencer that she'd completely forgotten about the single letter she'd received from Dana. The single letter that she'd received _over_ four weeks ago.

Crap. This officially made her the recipient of the Worst Slayer Den Mother of the Year award.

Buffy held down her panic. If it was something important, the sanitarium would have called her, or Dana would have found another way to get in contact with her. Granted, Dana checked-out about half the time and wasn't quite balanced enough to know if something was… Buffy took a calming breath, told her inner nag to shut it, and ripped the envelope open with one finger.

There wasn't a letter inside, but there was a single sheet of paper, thicker than any stationary. The touch of it, the texture, was familiar, if only slightly. Drawing paper of some sort, probably what Dana used in her art therapy sessions.

Buffy unfolded it, her eyes unsure of what they were seeing. The drawing was more advanced than the other ones Dana had taped up around her quarters, but still in crayon. The slayer was getting better, her hand steadier, her thoughts clearer. Still, even here, there was a sharpness, a quickened jerk to the dark lines, as if she couldn't quite control her movements.

"What is this?"

Buffy didn't mean to voice the question aloud, but she had no clue what this was supposed to mean.

Not that he wasn't recognizable. Not that she had any doubt. It was definitely a rendering of Spencer Reid. His puppy-dog eyes, his long neck, his wide mouth. Hair maybe a little longer than Buffy recalled.

The picture was mainly of his torso and surrounding him were blocky shapes. Buildings. Places Buffy felt she should have recognized but didn't. A cityscape. All of it colored in with such dark shades, all of it but Spencer's face. But the darkest part, the part that sent ice down her veins was the wings. They didn't sprout from his back, but were spread against the shadowed wall of a building close to the agent, and they were colored so black that she'd first mistaken them for shading.

There shouldn't have been anything ominous about a pair of wings, but the image sent a chill across her skin. She wanted to scream at the Spencer in the picture, tell him to run, tell him to get as far from the wings as he could.

Buffy's eyes drifted up, to the top of the sheet, to the letters nearly bleeding off the edge of the paper. The handwriting she didn't quite recognize, but she knew the stiff jerkiness of it to be Dana's work. Only three words were written:

NOT NOW. SOON.

* * *

Freedom and fear were not such strange bedfellows.

Spencer remembered feeling this way before, when he'd applied to a new graduate program, when he'd put his chips on the FBI instead of one of the many other offers he'd received. The wait between sending the paperwork and receiving the confirmation always gave him a sense of freedom, because his part was done, the rest of the decision in someone else's hands. But that freedom was always followed by fear. Fear that he'd made the wrong choice. Fear of possible rejection. Fear of likely acceptance.

As soon as Spencer had dropped off the letter to Buffy, the confessional signed by his own hand, a weight had been lifted off of him. The burden was now shared. Freedom. And, then, of course, the nudging doubt appeared. It whispered his worst fear: Buffy wouldn't be able to handle what he'd said. Her letters would cease. Or, worse, she'd write him back and say…

_No._ Spencer felt his body tremble. She wouldn't hurt him, purposely. So what if he hadn't heard from her in days? Spencer knew exactly how long it took for mail to be delivered to Cleveland, Ohio, but he couldn't account for the time it would take for her to get around to reading the letter, then processing it, then… Then coming up with something to say in response.

For all he knew, her letter was already in the mail. Waiting for him.

Something deep inside his body tightened. _Want_. He barely recognized it, but once he did, it lightened his step, even if it did nothing to calm his nerves. Spencer felt weightless when he thought about her response. Not everyone had a journal that would write back.

He took a steadying breath, stepping off of the elevator, his head held high with the hope that nothing on his mind would be showing through his eyes. A sip of his coffee later, he was crossing the bullpen, pretending not to notice his other co-workers.

"_Y__ou can feel alone standing in a crowd, but that doesn't mean you_ are_ alone. And it doesn't mean you can ignore the people around you."_

Her voice was soft in his head, an echo from those months ago, when he'd first heard her speak at Bennington, even though those words themselves had come from her last correspondence. It was easy to hear her, though; easy to picture the way her lips would move to make the sounds. He blamed part of that on his memory but most of it on his dreams. They'd provided him with a fair number of reminders concerning how she looked, what she would sound like saying his name, the way her mouth would form a little 'o' when she said—

"Reid?"

Spencer coughed on his coffee, knowing the heat at his cheeks wasn't a result of the caffeine. He turned, hoping the blush wasn't showing when he spared his fellow agents a questioning glance. Of course, that worry was quickly swallowed by another one—that they'd think the flushed cheeks were drug related instead. They wouldn't be wrong.

The fresh layer of sweat on his forehead told him he was already starting to suffer the effects of withdrawal. He'd have to make this quick. Despite the reminder, he nodded politely at the pair.

Jason Gideon was standing a few feet behind him, a puzzled looking Derek Morgan at his side. There was a file held between them, as if they'd been discussing paperwork. And, more importantly, both of the agents were staring at Spencer as if he'd come to work in his underwear.

Spencer quickly glanced downward, and he breathed a sigh of relief at seeing his own khaki pants. Then he chuckled bitterly at himself, shaking his head.

"Reid?"

Spencer's fingers tightened around his cup. "Sorry, did you guys say something?"

Morgan was staring at the back of Gideon's head, as if the older agent would be able to feel the glance and read its meaning. And maybe he could, because he picked up the cue automatically.

"You walked right past us," Gideon replied, his voice set to calm and steady, despite the early hour. It was the same tone he always used when interviewing. "Where were you just now?"

Spencer shifted his weight from one foot to the other, feeling restless. "In my head, I suppose," he replied, and tried not to make it sound curt. Before either of them could reply, he took a step back, giving the steps up to the next level of offices a glance. "Is Hotch in yet?"

"When isn't he?" Morgan snapped, making light. But his eyes were still narrowed. "Everything alright, man?"

Spencer shrugged. "Sure. Why wouldn't they be?" He knew it was a dare, throwing the question out there, begging one of the agents to grab hold of it and run. He quickly backtracked, feeling the words swelling like a fresh confession in his throat. "I think…I'm going to request a few personal days. To clear my head."

_To clear my body._ He didn't add that last part, but he might as well have. They knew. He'd been lying to himself since it started, pretending they weren't picking up on the signs, that they were purposefully ignoring his odd behavior. But, these people were more than co-workers; they were his family. They knew. They'd always known.

He chewed his bottom lip, waiting for the disappointment to show on their faces. Waiting for them to take the admission the wrong way.

Instead, Gideon's mouth curled into a small, crooked grin, like Spencer had said something worthwhile. "Why didn't you just phone in?"

Spencer cocked his head. Why hadn't he? _Because, I foolishly thought the withdrawal symptoms from my last slip-up would take longer to surface. Because I thought the cravings wouldn't be as strong around my friends. Because I'd forgotten how much these lights could hurt my eyes._

Another shrug was his answer.

"I'll get it straightened out," Gideon said, drawing him out of his thoughts. "Go back home, Dr. Reid."

Spencer didn't make the conscious decisions to obey, but his feet were already headed back toward the glass entryway. He felt Morgan pat his arm as he passed, adding silent support to the decision. Spencer smiled in thanks at the two and then moved to the elevator.

"Doesn't mean you _are_ alone," he said, at a whisper, as the doors slid shut.

* * *

Buffy was still on the phone waiting for the answer she needed when Xander knocked on her door. In the back of her mind, she knew that disappearing right before supper time wasn't the most convincing of moves, and that her favorite one-eyed carpenter knew her a bit too well to let it go brood in her room completely unnoticed, but right now, Buffy couldn't concentrate enough to come up with a decent lie for him. And, frankly, she didn't want to lie to her friends. She walked across her room, cell phone still pressed against her ear, and opened the door. Xander raised a brow when she ushered him in and shut the door back behind him. He stayed quiet, slumping down at her desk chair after a moment's hesitation.

Buffy could feel his stare at her back.

There would be questions, there would _definitely_ be questions, when she got off the phone, but Buffy was fully aware of what she was doing. Her new friendship and her slayer world were colliding—she wanted Xander here.

"_Hello, Buffy dear! Sue at the front desk told me you were on the line, and I thought, 'why wouldn't you know it!' See—"_

The voice echoing from the phone was familiar, and Buffy breathed a sigh of relief that Nurse Rita, the gossipy older woman she'd spoken to during nearly every visit to Bennington, was currently at work.

"—_just earlier today, we'd mentioned those wonderful little hair barrettes you'd bought Dana—isn't that a coincidence? But what a delight it is to hear from you! I sure hope nothing's wrong? Are we planning a trip to see our resident artist?_"

"Hi, Rita," Buffy said, putting a smile in her voice as she cut the woman's off. "Listen, I know it's not the right time to call for patients, but I really need to speak to Dana. She sent me this letter a few weeks back, and I just found it—I'm really embarrassed, and I don't want her to think I meant to ignore her…I know that sounds silly…"

Buffy had come to know this woman rather well; giving the extra details would always work in her favor with Nurse Rita. Primary source gossip was like nurse currency or something.

"_Ah, sweetheart, I'm sure Dana doesn't think you're ignoring her…you know what, just give me a minute. She's got some free time right now, anyhoo_. _I'll go see if she's up for a quit chat with her favorite person_."

The floor phone went back to playing an instrumental tune she'd come to identify with the sanatorium, and Buffy took the moment to close her eyes in thought. When she opened them again, Xander was sitting back down, the unfolded drawing and its envelope in his hands. He was confused, she could tell by his expression, mainly because he didn't recognize the man at front and center. She was sure, though, that he knew it must be one of Dana's _'thank you PTB,' said no one ever_, drawings.

"_Buffy."_

The sound of the soft, husky voice made her drop into a seat on the edge of the bed. She hoped the other young woman was having one of her good days. "Dana."

"_Did it help?"_

Buffy chewed her lip, unsure of how to reply. "Dana, why did you send me that drawing? Do you know the man you drew? Had you seen him at the hospital?"

"_There was an old owl in the dream, who liked the smell of blood and rode a wolf. Said he had a pet cat who'd killed a slayer long ago. Called him a name I didn't know. The cat, not the man. They were putting pieces together…Building up to something. They're killers of men."_

Because, obviously, that was clarification enough. Okay, maybe she _wasn't _having a good day. Buffy couldn't stand to hear the other slayer when her mind drifted. She reminded her so much of Tara, after what Glory did to her mind, when the witch would spew out words and find herself frustrated when they made no sense. And when Dana was having a particularly intense Slayer history lesson of the dream walking variety, she reminded her of crazy-vamp extraordinaire, Drusilla. That was _never_ a comparison Buffy liked to make.

"But the man in your drawing…? You don't know him?"

Dana was quiet a moment. _"I don't know why he was there."_

Because, of course, Dana had to know him in some way—she'd been the one who put his mother's letters in Buffy's purse in the first place. If not her, than one of the other patients…but the fact that she'd avoided the question seemed confirmation enough. Buffy opened her mouth, ready to ask why, but Dana cut her off.

"_But the man called your name. Called for help. He chased killers of men, saw the picture they were painting, and then, the owl chased him_."

_The owl chased him_. Buffy thought about the initial terror she felt when she saw the shadow of those wings so close to the rendering of Spencer, and she shivered, despite herself. Usually Slayer-dreams weren't quite so detailed, or sent to slayers they didn't concern. Of course, some of the girls received more cosmic messages than others…Buffy herself hadn't had any such nocturnal interruptions in a while now. It was as if the universe realized she was taking some time off from the major, end-of-the-world stuff. _Was_, being the right word, obviously, as her reluctance had spilled out on another slayer. She could no longer opt out of taking on a Big Bag, not if it was singling her out. Not if it was singling Spencer out.

Buffy definitely wanted in on the hunt now. She wanted to give Dana a spitfire list of questions, but she knew it would be almost pointless. If Dana knew what the owl was, she would have said by now. If she knew what the cat was, she would have… Buffy's eyes widened. _Crap—Catboy with the weirdo threat about humans coming after me. _And, she suddenly remembered Dana's letter arriving right after she'd run into the creature. Maybe, the visit had been what Dana had been warning her about, and the drawing had just arrived too late. As much as Buffy wanted to believe it was as simple as that, she doubted the theory.

"Not now, soon—that's what you wrote Dana." Buffy's voice hardened. "What did that mean, exactly?"

"_The owl… the owl didn't know yet. Too busy making plans to know."_

Buffy didn't have to ask. She already knew what "the owl" was missing—the connection between Spencer Reid and herself. That couldn't be unrelated, could it? Coincidences didn't exist when demons and prophetic dreams were involved.

"Does this owl demon know now?"

"_It's time for group_," Dana said. The sound of the phone being hung up announced that neither the answer nor a goodbye was coming.

Buffy held the phone to her ear a moment longer before dropping it down onto the bed and catching her face with both hands. This wasn't supposed to happen. With the rise of the new generation of slayers, the balance of good and evil in the world, Buffy had, for some reason, thought that would mean the load would be lightened. In several ways it was, but mostly…Mostly, it was heavier than ever. Her life was not about patrolling the cemeteries of one moderately-sized California town. Her life wasn't about keeping one Hellmouth closed or just managing to stay alive. Her duties had gone international—it was about all towns, all Hellmouths, all the lives of the girls who looked up to her. And, apparently, that meant that no one would ever be safe with her. Not even a penpal.

Buffy snorted in laughter at that, trying to cover the sob at her throat, because it sounded way too pathetic right about now. Because it was still too amusing a concept to pass up, she looked up at Xander, quietly seated across from her and looking more than a little distressed by her shift in moods.

"I have secret penpal," she announced, and then gave a loud, full laugh.

Xander smiled back, his eye betraying the gesture. He was still stuck in confused mode. "Say huh?" He straightened, glancing down at the drawing and back up again. "Wait…you're telling me the girls are right, and you've actually been writing letters to a complete stranger?"

Buffy sobered up. "I'm sorry, Xander. I should have told—"

"Buffy Summers _writes_?" He gawked at her. "You can _write_?"

Her pillow sailed into his chest a moment later. He caught it, holding it tight a moment before he shifted into a seat beside her on the mattress. A second later, Buffy felt an arm wrap around her shoulders. She fell into the half-hug, pressing her cheek against him.

"Don't get fresh with me, Mr. Harris," she warned.

"Oh, I gave up on that dream a long time ago," he assured. "Purely platonic cuddle-buddies here. And, I mean that in the manliest way possible."

Buffy snorted and then pulled away, shaking her head. She'd thought, for a short while, that she'd lost this side of Xander when Sunnydale, and Anya, sank into the earth. Even before that, he'd started to grow into a different man, burying that light-hearted nature she'd always loved so much, but being around the junior slayers, taking on a normal job, living in a house that he could call his own…It was good for him. Good for all of them. It reminded her of old times.

"I really mean it, though. I should have told you about…my friend. I don't know why I didn't just fess up to it. It's not like it's anything scandalous."

"Fess up to what exactly? Having a friend outside the Scooby circle—oh, this isn't you telling me that you've been writing smut, one letter at a time? Because if it is, I hope you made copies to share with the rest of the class…"

"Seriously, Xander."

"Seriously, Buffy," he mocked. Then he sighed. "We're not kids anymore, Buffy. You can choose to have friends, you know. I mean, it's not like you've never dated anyone before. And, I don't recall you passing all those decisions on to your friends…Okay, so maybe I have no clue why you'd want to keep your _writing_—gets funnier every time I say it—to yourself, but I'm going to chalk that up to crazy things girls do to keep the romance fresh."

Buffy rolled her eyes. "There is no romance. He's a _friend_."

"Uh-huh." Xander looked convinced. _Not_. But, he didn't press, and the humor had completely disappeared from his face. "As much as I_ love_ girl-talk, you think maybe we could skip forward to the part where Dana's involved? I'd really like to believe all that talk of owls involved taking a celebratory trip to Hooters, but I somehow doubt that's the case."

"Well, remember my encounter with Catboy?"

The story was in no way short, but speed babbling seemed to make it so. Buffy started with Dana's letter and worked backwards to her last visit to the sanitarium, how she'd accidentally arrived back with Spencer's letters, why she'd been distracted over the past day… She hadn't meant to tell him that much. These weren't all her secrets. They were Spencer's. But, once she started to speak, it all flowed out in one massive run-on sentence.

By the time she stopped for a breath, Xander was leaning back onto her bed, clutching her pillow against his chest, and staring up at the ceiling in much the same way she had been an hour earlier. He didn't move in the least but to frown.

"That was quite the babble-session, Buff," he noted. He grew quiet again, still looking thoughtful when he propped himself up onto his elbows, catching her eye. "You haven't even figured it out," he said, so quietly even she barely heard it.

She made a face. "Figured what out?"

Xander swallowed, as if something were caught in his throat, then rolled up into a sitting position, picking up the drawing as he moved. He held it out to her, making her take it.

Buffy stared up at him, not sure she recognized the uncertain look in his gaze.

His smile was crooked. "You need to be sure. Trust me on this one."

* * *

He knew his friends and co-workers often referred to him as a genius, but Spencer stood firm with his belief that intelligence couldn't be accurately quantified. If ever he needed more proof that he was not a genius…

He groaned in frustration, his cheek pressed against the ceramic side of his bathtub.

By the time he'd made it home from work, Spencer had realized that, despite the moderation of the doses he'd taken, despite the on-again-off-again nature of his addiction, the detoxification process was not going to be easy. He began to lose track of time that night, every hour feeling like three as he pressed through his cravings and spent most of his time on the bathroom floor, waiting for new symptoms, most of them humiliating, to overtake him.

He knew from his research that the next day would be no easier, but, for some reason, a foolish, illogical part of him had believed that the information provided was wrong and that things would be better. They weren't.

The dizzying numbness that had settled over his mind had lifted away to make room for too many coherent thoughts, too much anger at himself and everything in existence. He rocked his body against the onslaught of an abdominal cramp, for the first time realizing that, at some point, he had made his way back to his bed. The covers beneath him were damp with sweat.

This was worse than the last time—and then, he had failed to abstain. Spencer wasn't sure why he thought this time would be any different. Accept it had been, so far. Still, he wished he'd done more to prepare, but he couldn't stand the thought of checking into a center, being medicated to ease the suffering to his body. He refused to believe he was that far gone…Close, but…

The body aches lessened for the moment, leaving him tired.

He wished he'd, at the very least, told one of his teammates. Morgan would have been there in a heartbeat to watch over him, make sure he didn't suffer alone. The thought made the loneliness at his core all the worse. He could remember feeling like this, disoriented and beaten, when he was a child, home with a particularly bad case of the flu. His mother had been too lost in her own head to be there beside him. She was just in the other room, but it could have just as well been a million miles away.

When he heard the knock at the front door, he first thought it was his heart beat again, drumming against his sternum. The noise sounded again, and he jerked up. His instinct was to ignore it…but if that was Morgan, he could honestly use the help right about now.

Barely managing to pull a fresh t-shirt over his head, he stumbled out of the bedroom. His body didn't like the movement, but he found the front door quickly enough.

And then he realized it had all been his imagination at work. He'd had this dream before, of course, where Buffy Summers appeared at his front door, staring up at him with those curious green eyes.

"Spencer?"

He blinked, but she stayed in place. Water dripped off of her hair and onto her jacket, and she shivered at the touch, but her gaze stayed locked on him.

"Buffy?"

By the time he said her name, his breathing had quickened with panic.

No._ No_, this wasn't happening…She wasn't supposed to see him like this. How was she even…? How did she even...?

Her hands caught his arms, holding him still. He hadn't known he was swaying until then. She reached up, pulling him down so that his face was resting against her shoulder. His shaking arms tightened around her, but she managed to not fold under his weight. Spencer realized what he'd already known from her letters; Buffy Summers was a strong woman.

Her cheek rested against his hair, her breath hot against his ear. "It's alright—I've got you," she promised, tightening her embrace. "I'm here, Spencer."

* * *

**A/N:** Please, please, please, if you're suffering from a serious addiction, seek help. Don't try to go through withdrawals on your own. It's dangerous. This is fiction. Okay, disclaimer over. Hope you enjoyed!


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